


Cheering You On

by CheekyDoodles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Artist Castiel, Cheerleader Dean, Comfort, Comfort Food, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Daddy Issues, Dean in Panties, Dress Up, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hellatus, Hurt/Comfort, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Nail Polish, POV Multiple, Panties, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Shorts (Clothing), Shyness, Some Plot, Verbal Abuse, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyDoodles/pseuds/CheekyDoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an early spring day, assiduous art student Castiel Novak discovers a secret about the co-captain of the cheerleading squad: their bright pink panties. It's only a cause for interest considering the co-captain is none other than the rough and tough Dean Winchester. If only that were the least of their worries. As their chance friendship grows into something sacred and their personal demons threaten to drag them down, will their combined strength be enough to stick the landing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Lab Partner

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. I'm writing this because there's just not enough cheerleader!Dean/artist!Cas in this world. Buckle up for plot holes, sloppiness, food as a plot device, over use of certain words, POV changes, and future smut.  
> *Trigger warning for verbal/physical abuse in future chapters*  
> We cool? Cool.

 

A bright pink line of pantie-hem, like a highlighted sentence in the English textbook Castiel flipped through earlier today, peeks over the elastic of the co-captain of the cheerleading squad's cheer shorts. He can't make out the words of the song playing on the radio, but it's something dancy.

And he's just standing there watching.

A tan, muscled leg bends up over a shoulder in a stretch that Castiel wouldn't attempt, showing off even more highlighter pink from a more obscene angle. Heat floods Castiel's cheeks as he watches, his stomach tingling.

They're just panties, Castiel should think. He sees them often enough; girls and low rise jeans, his sister's laundry accidentally mixed with his, it's nothing exciting. But this isn't exactly the normal case.

Castiel looks around the hallway once more. Art club just wrapped up for the afternoon, and the other cheerleaders must be in the locker room, so the hall is empty. No one to see him lingering outside the door of the weight room.

It doesn't help him find the decency to look away.

Okay, it isn't exactly normal the normal case, because the co-captain of the cheerleading squad is a boy. Dean Winchester. Popular, tough, handsome, "swimming in girls" _Dean Winchester_ \- apparently wears girl's underwear?

Castiel's eyes widen as the boy easily shifts from stretch to handstand, loose purple shirt falling to reveal his rippling back.

It's really none of his business what underwear Dean chooses to wear, and he isn't judging him for it either. Even if everyone knew (which he was sure no one did because the news would've spread like fire through their smallish school population), he didn't think anyone would dare give the boy any lip for it. Dean carries himself in such a way that he looks like he could kill a person on his day off, much less base a pyramid formation. And he has a reputation to back it up.

Castiel didn't actually see it happen, but one day at practice Bartholomew the quarterback started picking on Dean, who'd just transferred in from Kansas. He was rowdy enough for everyone to hear, sticking Dean with slurs of the same extremity Castiel's own father would use. But Dean surprised them all by punching Bart's lights out right there.

Everyone clapped for him, and he was never picked on twice.

Castiel finally tears himself away from the window and hustles to the parking lot before he sees anything else to add to the weight of a guilty secret on his mind.

 

*

 

It's Tuesday, and Castiel shows up in Anatomy before everyone else as usual.

Mr. Crowley throws him his regular half smile, half sneer from behind his desk. "Hello Clarence," the surly teacher coos, using his nickname for Castiel. His feet are propped on his desk and Castiel spies a clump of gum stuck to the Burberry logo of his right sole. "Fancying the cold?"       

"Very much," Castiel replies, handing in his homework.         

Mr. Crowley snatches it and eats it with his eyes before marking it with a red smiley and handing it back. "Good boy. Now don't go telling the other lemmings this but, _you_ are my absolute favorite. And I fancy your little... doodles."

No one is sure why Mr. Crowley teaches Anatomy, or even why he's still allowed to teach Anatomy. He insults students with his across-the-pond accent, throws things, has days where he forces them to sit in silence for no reason. A few days ago he made Castiel's lab partner faint from watching a rather graphic slideshow about skin diseases. Chuck was okay, but he dropped Anatomy, leaving Castiel with a lab table all to himself.     

Castiel says thanks and sits at his black topped lab table, free to store his bag on the empty seat next to him. The rest of the class trickles in just before the bell rings and Mr. Crowley makes a crude joke about yoga pants.

"Yo, mind if I sit here?"

Castiel looks up from his continued drawing from last class to see Dean Winchester standing at the edge of his table; petite eyebrows arched over very green eyes, waiting on an answer.

"Oh," a flutter of surprise rises in his throat and he swallows it. "Sure, I don't mind," he shakes his head and slides his bag to the tile floor with a rejected thump.

Dean grins, pearly teeth showing. "Thanks man." He smacks his abused binder on the table and leans back in his chair, the picture of nonchalance. "Sorry to poop on your 'one man one table to himself' party."

"It's no problem," Castiel assures, returning to his notebook.

He scribbles little loops of circles in the margin of his paper, nerves prickling. If he's being honest, last week was not the first time he'd caught Dean working out, even if it was the first time seeing Dean's panties.

On the contrary, right now it looked totally implausible that Dean was a cheerleader who secretly wore girl's underwear, or tight cheer shorts that rode up when he stretched. He's wearing a shabby wine colored henley under an olive coat with the collar turned up to give off a 'rough and tough' persona, and heavy boots.

He wonders if Dean's wearing any panties now, under his dirty ripped jeans. What color would they be? Pink again?

Mr. Crowley begins attendance, calling each student by their nickname. Castiel thinks he's successfully renamed every student in their small school; Green Jesus, FlipFlop, Lincoln Log...

"Clarence!"

Castiel raises his hand without looking up, and the teacher continues on.

"Clarence?" Dean whispers, amusement coloring his voice. "Not much a of a nickname. I don't think I know your name, actually," he apologizes.

"That's alright." Castiel switches from loops to stars. He wouldn't really expect Dean to know his name anyway. "My name is Castiel. Castiel Novak."

Dean pauses, probably surprised. But instead of saying something Castiel's heard dozens of times before like _that's a strange name_ , he says:

"Can I call you Cas?"

Castiel feels himself ease up a bit, confident enough to return his stare. "Sure. I'll just call you Dean, then. Is that... okay?"

He laughs aloud and a few students glance over at them. He has freckles, Castiel sees now. A light spray from cheek to cheek, over the bridge of his nose.  Probably from being in the sun so often.

"Squirrel," Mr. Crowley shouts, breaking their conversation when Dean looks forward.

"Sup," he says coolly. His nickname is Squirrel? It's... not inaccurate.

"I seem to recall having to endure your unique charm in my seventh period. What in blazes are you doing in my _fifth_?"

He shrugs. "Guess I got rescheduled. Hope it isn't an inconvenience."

Crowley narrows his dark eyes and his crow's feet deepen, but he leaves it at that. He stows his clipboard in a drawer with a slam and stands at his podium, gripping its edges. "So! Who's ready for something fun?" he searches the lake of faces in the room, waiting for an answer.

Dean winks at Cas and raises his hand high. "Meeeee."

"Good. Because it's final quarter project time, my lovelies." A groan echoes through the room. "I know I know it's so exciting, don't mess yourselves. Everyone pick a partner- _one_ partner, Chicklet- and come get a guideline and pick your topic."

Kids begin pairing up and Crowley hands out slices of pink paper.

Castiel sighs inwardly. With Chuck gone, he has nobody to work projects with. Chuck was a good partner who always did his fair share, even if he was a little strange sometimes. He peeks at Dean from the corner of his eye, who's spinning a pen between his fingers. He could ask Dean but he was sure he had other friends he'd prefer working with, not someone he'd just spoken to for the first time.

"Squirrel!"

"Yeah, shortcake?"

"I'm going to ignore that comment in lieu of wringing out your pretty little neck. You're to work with Clarence. He keeps his ducks in a row and more importantly doesn't irritate me. I'm _so_ hoping some of his charm will cancel yours out," he adds, tossing them a guideline.

Dean catches it and rolls his eyes at the teacher's retreating back. He surprises Cas by sliding the paper between them, offering a ready smile.

"So Cas, what'll it be?" he asks cheerily. "The mouth or the butt?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Dean! It's time for dinner!"

In the after-sunset, purple-edged dark of his small bedroom, Dean lays belly down on his bed staring at the bright halo of his laptop screen. Surrounded by papers and textbooks and a pencil jabbing his arm, he's been working on this Anatomy project for an hour- wait no, two hours? Aw hell. Who would've thought the 'oral cavity' was such a complicated place and needed twenty PowerPoint slides. It was better than the intestinal tract, at least, as Cas had said.

Arranging his papers back into their folder, he finds a scrap of notebook paper and rereads it, smirking to himself.  It's the piece that his new buddy ripped from his all doodled over notebook and hastily scrawled his phone number on. He already put the number in his phone, but hadn't needed to message him for anything. Yet.

He sits up from his nest with a crinkle of paper, rubs his dry eyes and stretches his back until it pops. The combination of the off season and cold air is making him stiff or something.

"Dean, now," his mom calls again, her voice tipped with impatience.

"I'm comin'!" he shouts back. He hustles down the stairs barefoot and two at a time, already smelling the glory of what awaits him in the kitchen.

In the center of their shabby round table sits his reason for getting up on a Tuesday: a steaming plate of burgers, fresh from the stove. Complementary to it sits more plates of condiments, crinkly oven fries and the roll of paper towels for greasy hands.

"Oh I love you Mom," Dean sighs, kissing his mom on the cheek before sitting in his spot beside her and his floppy haired little brother, Sam.

"Way to take your time," Sam groans, snatching up a patty and fixing it on a toasted bun with a tower of lettuce. The rule around the house is no eating until everyone's sat at the table. He didn't know why, they'd just always done it. They still do it now when it's more often than not just the three of them, Dad's empty chair glaring at him from across table.

"I love you too, sweetie," his mother says.

Her tired blue eyes droop in the midst of her sweet, time-forgiven face, her hair spilling in limp blonde ringlets from her yellow hairband. She had a long day at work, he can tell. She's been having a lot of them lately. So he promises her he'll cook dinner more often.

"Oh, Dean you don't have to do that," she shakes her head.

"C'mon Mom it's fine, I'll cook," he brushes her weak disagreement away like a moth from a lamp.

She looks at him the way she does when they both know he won't take no for an answer. "Fine. Then I call for a chicken parmesan night."

If Sam had a dog's ears they would've perked up. "Will you make those breadsticks to go with it? Those are so good."

Dean scoffs around a mouthful of cheeseburger. "Those come from a _box_ , ya doof."

Sam scowls in that particular way he has. "I _know_ , you jerk. Like you could make something that good."

"Hey my chicken parmesan is perfect! Bitch."

Their mother clears her throat. "So, who wants to talk about their day?"

"Me, Kevin and Charlie are working on a computer game for class," Sam chimes. "I'm mostly in charge of the formatting stuff like..." he rambles on all excited, coming to life the way he does when he talks about his nerdy stuff.

Mom praises him graciously, even though she doesn't totally understand what he's talking about. "What about you, Cheerio?"

Ugh that nickname. He almost prefers _Squirrel_. He shrugs, shoulders hunched to his ears, elbows on the table. "Bela wants me to help her put together some fund raising thing."

"Oh really," she raises her eyebrows. "That ought to be fun, hmm?"

He barks a laugh. "Yeah, _big_ fun."

Bela Talbot is the _other_ co-captain of the cheerleading squad. She's got a wonderful body (that he's had his hands on just about every part of during their cheer drills), topped off with a head of soft brown hair, pouty lips and frosty green eyes to match. He'd be into her like fruit in a pie if her horrible personality didn't asphyxiate him most of the time.

"And I got a new lab partner for some dumb Anatomy project. Castiel Novak," he says with a flourish, letting the fancy syllables roll off his tongue.

“Hang on, Novak? Like Mr.  Novak who teaches freshmen success?” Sam asks.

“Uh, I dunno maybe? They don’t look anything alike, though.”

"Well, Castiel is a pretty name," Mom says, going for the ketchup. "Her parents must be pretty religious."

Dean chokes on his french fries and has to take a long gulp of Sam's juice. He coughs and his little brother smacks his back too hard, most likely on purpose. "Easy, Sam! Geez. Cas is a _guy_ , mom. And what do you mean by 'religious'?"

"Oh, sorry hon," she frowns and Sam cackles. "I just wondered if _his_ family was very religious, because Castiel is the name of an angel."

He squints. "You mean likea buncha fruity Bible thumpers?" An angel, huh? He could see the sense of that, even if Cas didn't look like the 'Bible right next to the Vaseline on my nightstand' type.

Cas has a sort of angelic look, he thinks. Not like some naked douche in an old painting with a dead stare. He was much nicer to look at than that, and Dean was jumped by that handsomeness today when they met; how he looked up at him with those sloped ocean blue eyes and intimidating jaw, puffy pale lips. Dude even had a damn Clark Kent chin! He tried to act cool and probably ended up looking like a dork.

She frowns. "Just because a family is religious doesn't make them _fruity_ , Dean."

"You just haven't seen the right movies, then."

Dinner finishes with empty plates and full bellies and the brothers take care of cleanup. Standing side by side at the sink, Dean scrubs a spatula and hands it to his little brother to rinse.

"What do you think Dad's doin'?" Sam asks quietly, so Mom won't hear from the living room.

Dean hands him a sudsy pan. "He's working, Sam. Somewhere in St. Louis. You know that."

He huffs a sigh. "Yeah. It's just... I dunno."

"What don't you know?"

His little brother sweats his answer for a bit, keeping his eyes trained on the pan that doesn't need more rinsing. "It, it's just a lot better when he _isn't_ here, y'know?"

For a cold moment, the splash of water is the only sound to hear in their little kitchen. Dean hands over the last dish and reaches for a dry towel printed with ducks.

"Sam believe me, I know. Things are a whole 'nother ballgame with dad around and I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is." The words taste bitter and sound worse coming out, but he can't stop them. "Maybe things'll change, be like they used to, but I wouldn't count on it."

Sam looks away, not before Dean can see the dejection in his usually cool hazel eyes. "Yeah, I know," he mumbles, stacking up the dishes with a clack.

God, how that hurts. God how this sucks.

"Hey." He squeezes Sam's shoulders and kneels down to see him better, in total 'Grandpa Campbell' mode. "Look at me, little bro, I'm sorry I said that. Everything's gonna be fine, you hear me?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say."

"Aw I'm serious. Even if Dad ain't around, you still got Mom, and Bobby, more importantly you got _me_ , who can set you up with a hot cheerleader," he winks, trying to disband these tense vibes.

Sammy smiles then, shrugging Dean's hands off. "Yeah, right, since you're the expert at _that_ ," he sasses back, implications strong.

Dean flicks his earlobe as he scampers away. "Hey what d'you mean by that?"

He stalls in the doorway, smirk ripening as he rubs his ear. "Let's just say I saw your Victoria's Secret catalogue. I think ' _lavender lagoon_ ' is a great color on you."

" _You sonofa_ -"

Mom yells at them when they just about knock over the TV set in the midst of a no-nonsense chase throughout the house, Dean promising Sam the deepest wedgie he'll ever receive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Friggin' Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So Cas what's up with you?" Dean asks, like they've been good friends for years. "Anything new since yesterday?"

Mushy bits of cereal twirl in the milk of Castiel's cereal bowl before he dumps it in the sink. He prys the fridge door open and gathers what he needs to make his lunch. Peanut butter and jelly jars _clink_ on the granite countertop. A butter knife and two slices of bread later he snaps the lid on his sandwich box, and slips it into his lunch bag beside an apple.

Dean didn't text him last night. Maybe that meant he just didn't need any help with the project. Dean seems responsible enough and would've texted him if he needed to. He thinks.

"Hey bro," his older brother Gabriel slides past him on the polished floor with his pineapple printed socks, ruffling Cas' damp hair. "So what's the plan? Wanna get ice cream for breakfast? I could go for a good banana split, extra banana, maybe some itty bitty marshmallows..."

"I can't, Gabriel, I have school," he refuses, hooking his backpack over both shoulders.

His older brother pouts his thin lips. "Well I don't have school, so hows about you skip it today? I’ll write you a note. Oh c’mon ya damp sock, just spend some time with your favorite brother!"

Gabriel is back home for an undetermined few weeks to spend some time with him, even though he’s a teacher at his school and they see each other everyday in passing. Gabriel just likes the company, and Castiel appreciates it. With their older sister Anna gone off to work a good job and live in an apartment across the state, things could get dull at home. If not depressing.

"You're my only brother."

He holds up a finger. "Exactly my point, oh slow one. So put the backpack down and get your _fun_ pack on."

Castiel starts to ask what that could be, but his father's chiding voice echoes down the staircase, surprising them both. "Now Gabe let Cassie be. He only has a few more months of government regulated torture to endure before he's free to do whatever he wants. Not everyone can be as _free-spirited_ as you."

Their father stops his slow descent on the second to last step and his sunken, rheumy eyes like the skin of a dead fish flick over each of them as he fixes the cufflinks of his work suit. It's Wednesday, so he's wearing his blue tie patterned with little red umbrellas. And he only calls his youngest son 'Cassie' when he's in a good mood.

"Ah Dad I was just kiddin', learn to joke more," Gabriel gabs, clapping the old man on the back. "Besides I know you'd _love_ to ditch work and spend the day with me, right?" This is almost funny, because everyone in this room knows Gabriel would rather dive into hot garbage than spend time with Dad anymore. It's a miracle Dad still lets him hang around.

When Gabriel got his teaching degree and landed a student teacher position at their school two years ago, Anna dropped everything to come home and Castiel helped her bake an ugly homemade cake for him, as a surprise. Everything was good. Then Dad came home from work. Even though he didn't support Gabe's decision, they thought he would be accepting at least, proud.

They were very wrong.

The memory of it is still too sharp in Castiel’s brain no matter how hard he tries to rub it out. The slight waver that didn't belong in Gabe's naturally bright voice as he told their Father the good news. All the yelling afterward. The shattered pieces of Mom’s favorite vase dancing on the kitchen floor next to the sticky remains of their cake, the blood from Gabriel’s split lip blooming on Dad’s white dress shirt. Dad came to his senses and left to get a drink after Anna screamed holy terror and Castiel took a blow in the face to defend his brother. They spent the rest of that night in Gabe's bed with him. He still remembers his big brother’s golden head on his smallish chest that just couldn't stop shaking, Anna's pale arms protectively draped over them both as she whispered "it's okay, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Gabe," over and over.

Their father humors Gabe now with a depleted stare. "Son, you know I love you, just not this early." He continues past them to slide his briefcase off the counter and grab a thermos of coffee, shiny dark dress shoes spanking the floor. Something catches his attention and leans over the sink.

"Castiel?"

His father's abruptly refrigerated tone chills his blood, something like cold maple syrup now working through his heart. He sees Gabriel's jaw bone jump. "Yes?"

"Where do we put our dirty dishes?"

Castiel could hit himself. He flies to the sink to retrieve his dishes and put them in the dishwasher, feeling those gray eyes watching.

"Ah, that's right," he cheers, his jolliness returning. "We weren't raised in a jungle now, were we?"

Cas shakes his head. "No sir."

"Good." He squeezes Castiel's shoulder with a meaty hand then bids his sons a goodbye and good day, door booming shut behind him.

As soon as he hears Dad's car leave the driveway Gabriel is fussing over him, smoothing a hand down the shoulder Dad squeezed and pats the side of his neck. Castiel says he's okay, using his hands to remove his brother's. He might've bruised if Dad wasn't in such a good mood today.

"Well that was real smooth, bro," Gabe scolds. "How many times are you gonna forget before he cleans your airhead of a clock?"

Cas shrugs, not caring to think about it. 

Years ago, Anna told him the story of how their Mother was a famous activist once, and alongside their Father they used to be head over heels involved with charity, always volunteering and even traveling the world before Anna was born. They kept their work local after they had Anna and the boys came years later, even if Cas doesn't remember it much. Then Mom died and Dad just couldn't do it anymore, so the four of them moved away and started over. Their Father is still a prominent figure in society, but as CEO of  _Talbot Bridge & Iron_, a metalworks company having nothing to do with charities or good causes. He works long hours, travels only to attend stress filled conferences, returns home with more wrinkles and a shortened wick of patience instead of a hug for everyone. Anna says Mom was his heart, and when she was gone, it left him empty.

 

*

 

It turns out Dean hadn't needed to text him, because he was just as on top of things as Cas was. He shows Castiel now on his laptop, his half of the presentation slides completed nicely. He was worried over nothing. Why did Mr. Crowley say he needed the good influence, then?

"Aw he just hates me," Dean answers his question, unplugging his flash drive and handing it to him since he volunteered to wrap everything up by Friday. His fingers are cool for their brief touch on his palm. "Or maybe he really likes me," he considers, waving at their teacher from across the room.

Mr. Crowley looks like he's asking the ceiling for strength.

"So Cas what's up with you?" Dean asks, like they've been good friends for years. "Anything new since yesterday?"

Dean is so... hard to look at. Sometimes when his eyelashes flutter and his lips part, he's almost feminine, pretty. But when the lines between his eyebrows sharpen and his sun-freckled nostrils flare, he's all masculine. Cas forces himself to return his stare with the same ease, since it'd be rather rude to speak to the table or his hands. He prays the heat crawling up his neck doesn't show.

"Nothing. Nothing much. My older brother is visiting for a while."

"You got a brother? Would he happen to be Mr. Novak who teaches freshmen success? Just asking since my brother is in that class,” he asks and Cas nods. “You don't say. What's his name?"

"Gabriel."

Dean gives him a look. "Gabriel. Like the... angel?"

"Yes. My parents were uh, they were devout. My older sister's name is Anna, my father is Zachariah, my mother Naomi. I have two uncles named Lucifer and Balthazar. All angelic names."

Dean chuckles, shaking his head a bit. "Wow. Your parents um, they must be proud. You gotta tell me you got baby pictures of you dressed as a cherub."

Castiel laughs and it sounds too squeaky. Dad? Proud? "Not likely. I don't have many baby pictures."

"What? And here I was all psyched up to see your naked cherub ass," he snaps his fingers wistfully. "I mean my mom's got a whole _album_ dedicated to my first three years of life and about six pages of it are just pictures of when I was a frilly pink princess for Halloween." He rubs his forehead as if the memory of it physically pains him.

"I'm sure there's some pictures of me floating around," he regresses. "But I was adopted with Gabriel when I was about three years old and my adoptive mother passed a few years afterward so, not many pictures were taken."

Immediately he regrets sharing that little tidbit, watching the light leave Dean's eyes as his smile wilts like a flower in the shade. "Oh," he says, voice cracking on just one syllable. "I uh, I didn't know that. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. You shouldn't be apologizing," Castiel shrugs it off as blandly as he can and buffers, "what is your mother like?"

"Oh, she's, she's great. Mom makes an awesome BLT and likes to rag on me about _every_ thing..."

There's so much genuine love in his voice as he talks about his mother that Cas can only smile dumbly and say that's great. Dean looks down afterwards, sheepish from getting so carried away. They marinate in a bubble of silence separate from the chitchat of the other kids in the room; Cas pretends to write something down and Dean chews the end of the pencil he borrowed.

Dean suddenly asks, "d'you have any ideas for a fundraiser?"

"A fundraiser?"

"Yeah a fundraiser, y'know for the cheer squad. We're raising money for next year's uniforms or some crap like that," he grumbles. "And nobody likes my co-captain's idea, so I told them I'd think of something better but so far," he makes a zero with his hand.

"I assumed you always had carwashes. But I guess it's a little cold for that right now."

"I wonder if people'd pay more for perky nipples... I'm kidding, Cas. Boy your face sure can get red."

Cas feels his mouth work like a goldfish's. Then he has an idea. "Did you consider having a movie night?"

"A what?"

"A movie night. You could borrow the school's projector and show a movie on the field, charge five dollars or so for admittance."

Dean takes a second before latching on to the idea, holding up a finger. "We could totally sell food. What's a movie without popcorn? And everyone'd bring their own blankets and get all cozied up with their babes. It's perfect. You know what, Cas? You're a friggin' genius."

He can't help the corners of his lips pulling up, or the way his hands suddenly need to fidget. "I don't know about that, but you're welcome, Dean."

"Seriously, thank you."

 

* * *

 

 

Dean's boots squeak on the cheap red and white flecked tiles, practically skipping along to his next class. He's so ready to slam Bela with his new idea and stick up for the rest of the team he can taste it. Especially Jo. She'll most likely thank him graciously. Cas really saved his ass.

Speaking of his ass, it itches. These new ' _beachy peachy'_   knickers he picked out had looked awesome on the model's ass in the Victoria's Secret catalogue and he looked pretty good in them when he checked the mirror this morning, even managed to get the correct size and everything without any help, but _God_. The lace is practically flossing his butt crack as he walks. He has to hand it to girls, they must have a high tolerance for this. 

He makes a pit stop at his locker to stow his books until tomorrow, and tries what he hopes is an inconspicuous wedgie fix.

 _Cas sure is somethin'_ , he thinks, slamming his locker. Adopted? There's nothing wrong with that, of course. It's just, he can't wrap his head around it. Sam not sharing his blood? No mother? Having to rely on his deadbeat dad? He shakes the thoughts off.

Breezing into Home Ec., he spies Bela already at their station, arms full of food processor. He's psyched to finally be in the cooking portion of Home Ec., where he outshines the rest of the class. For awhile there it was mostly bleak crap about home finances and learning to not mix ammonia and bleach together. Heather had learned that the hard way.

He ties the straps of his stained apron together and Bela plugs the equipment in so it's ready to go. "I do hope you've got an idea for me," she coos, posh English accent sugarcoating her venom.

"I do, actually," he informs, proposing Cas' idea.

"Dean," she starts in, voice dripping condescend as if he's her problem child. "Do you really expect people to pay to lay out in the cold field like a herd of cattle to see a movie they've most likely already seen?"

He grits his teeth. "No, that-!"

"Okay kiddos lets flip our books to page 76 and we'll begin going over today's lesson," Mr. Fitzgerald sings from the front of the classroom.

"That isn't the point," Dean whispers under Mr. Garth's spiel, finding page 76. Hot damn, pie crust. Hopefully tomorrow they'll make a filling for it and bake a pie. "The _movie_ is just a front- an excuse for couples to get some action under the stars. I'm telling you, people will pay for that crap. It's 'romantic'," he makes air quotes around the word.

Bela thoughtfully measures off a cup of unbleached flour and juts out her lower lip. "Hm. No."

The knife hits the cutting board a little too forcefully as he cuts cold butter into cubes. "Okay, have it your way. Hey, Mr. Garth!"

She cuts him with a razor of a glare. "Don't."

Garth Fitzgerald is a happy guy who teaches Home Economics on top of coaching their cheer squad. When he teaches he wears an apron and insists on being called  _Mr_. Garth. When he coaches, he wears a ball cap, a silver whistle around his neck, and insists on being called  _Coach_  Garth. He hugs a little too much for comfort, but he grows on you. And Dean can win him over most days.

The teacher stops at their station, smiling at their progress. "It's looking good so far, keep it up you two," he gives them a thumbs up.

"Thanks. I wanted to ask you about the fundraiser. I have a an idea," Dean says.

Mr. Garth visibly switches into Coach Garth, perplexed. "But Dean, Bela already planned to-"

"That's right," Bela cuts across him. "So let's not make this more difficult than needed-"

"No one on the squad is cool with her idea," Dean squashes her down. "Well, besides Becky. So I was thinkin' we..."

After Dean explains the idea for a second exhausting time, their Coach scratches his long nose, considering it. "You know Bela, I know you don't like it, but I'm thinking that this is one of those 'majority rules' situations."

Victory, baby. Smugness practically spills out of Dean. "So you like my idea better?"

Coach holds up his hands in defense. "Well, you know I love both of your ideas _equally_ , but Dean's _is_ less expensive, Bela."

She rolls her catty eyes. "Alright, fine. I'll inform the girls later, let them know there's been a change of plans."

Garth pats each of them on the back. "Now that's what I like to hear, my _co_ -captains _co_ -operating!"

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel sits back to stare out the foggy window of the art classroom. As it always has been, it's a little too warm in here for some unknown reason. The heat seems to liven the smell of the oil paints drying on their canvases, the charcoal pencil sharpenings littered everywhere, the waxy pastels stuck to his fingers.

This drawing isn't right, not yet. He's been working on this valley of flowers on and off, and he thinks it may be best to just give up and throw it away. The colors on the paper seem tired of bearing themselves to his gaze. Stress has that effect on him: performance issues. For the past month he's been dragging behind, hardly producing anything worthwhile. Just a lot of half colored regrets, wastes of material. It's frustrating. But today feels different, somehow.

Perhaps it's something in the air, or maybe it's because he can't get his mind off Dean.

The boy he looks up to likes his idea. He called him a genius. A _friggin_ ' genius. Castiel's stomach flips up, that boyish face still so fresh in his mind.

"Huh." _Maybe some more of this green right here_ , he decides, rubbing the pastel into his drawing.

"Wowee. That's lookin' spiffy, kiddo," the arts teacher, Ms. Masters critiques from over his shoulder, spooking him. When he cranes his neck to look back, she grins, almost black eyes glittering. "Looks like you're pulling through your rough patch, eh?"

Ms. Megan Masters is his favorite teacher. Her voice reminds him of dried rose petals, if that makes any sense. Dry and halfway sweet, with humor dark enough to rival Mr. Crowley's. She's a rather experienced artist herself, so he heeds her critiques and takes pride in her compliments.

"Thanks," he nods, turning back to his work.

"D'you think this is one for the portfolio?" she asks, sitting down backwards in the chair beside him.

He shakes his head. "No this is just, just something I wanted to draw. I liked the colors, but had trouble getting them right. Well, until just now."

She tilts her head, considering. "I agree. This is a mite too Bob Ross. Your dragon, now that was killer. I swear kiddo, your portfolio is gonna knock those hoity-toity know-nothing's pleated socks off."

Advanced placement art is a high stakes class, to say the least. On top of regular assignments, you compile a portfolio of your most impressive pieces throughout the school year. When time's up, your precious work gets shipped off to be judged as a whole and scored based on creativity, expertise, etc. Whatever grade you get, from 'I hardly tried' 1 to 'I'm a God' 6, will be referenced in whatever secondary school you're looking to attend. Most importantly, the portfolio project is a golden opportunity to snag prestigious scholarships, even _full rides_.

"Everyone likes the dragon," he says as the bell rings, boxing up his pastels. He slips the completed drawing into his bag and tells Ms. Masters goodbye. Gabe likes to keep Castiel's portfolio rejects, so he'll give it to him at home. He's not going to need it.

If his art is going to earn him a way out, he only needs his best.

 ****  
  


 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do my best to update once a week so if you liked this and it didn't make your eyes scream, make sure to subscribe. Plus, follow me on tumblr [here](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/) for updates. Until next time!


	3. Gonorrhea/Gingiva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date? Cas bites the inside of his lip to keep his dopey grin contained. "Okay, if you want."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooooooo~

"You mean that guy with the dark hair and purple backpack?" Sam asks, pointing with his hand stuffed in his khaki coat pocket.

"Yeah, that's him. C'mon," Dean nudges his brother out the door and into the wintry air of the school courtyard. Fresh from the clamorous incubator of school, he shivers and turns his collar up to shield the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. To his surprise, Cas texted him this morning before school and asked, rather stuffily (then again it’s hard to decipher the actual tone of a text message without smiley faces and ‘haha’s), if he would meet him in the courtyard at lunch to go over their presentation. Considering today was the day to dance in front of the class like circus monkeys, Dean said sure.

All alone in the dead grass under the canopy of a gray leafed tree, sits Castiel. His presence demands Dean's attention in the midst of such a bleak backdrop, he and the brightly colored quilt beneath him the only color in this panorama. He isn’t looking at Dean, doesn’t even know he and Sam are walking toward him because he looks so content in his space thinking his thoughts and Dean almost doesn’t want to ruin it by entering it.

But Dean calls to him, waving one hand high.

Cas looks up and takes a second before waving back.

"Can't we just meet inside, somewhere with chairs?" Sam mutters.

"Shut your cake trap Sammy."

"Hello Dean," Cas nods, his grave voice curled at the ends with an easy smile that eases Dean’s nerves. He's wearing one of those god-awful knitted Christmas sweaters patterned with black bunny rabbits of all things, and tight brown corduroy jeans. Dean loads his barrel with a perfect joke about his mom dressing him but remembers Cas’ doesn’t have a mom to dress him and feels like a dick. "And hello, um..."

"This is Sam, my little turd of a brother," Dean clarifies, hooking an arm around him. Sam says hello, shoving him off. "So you mind if we sit?"

"No, go ahead," Castiel smoothes his blanket and moves back to give them more room. "But, careful," he warns Dean who's about to plant his butt, "there's a rock right there."

"Oh, uh thanks," Dean moves over and flops down probably too close to Cas, their thighs meeting and bleeding warmth through their jeans. But sweater boy doesn't complain or wiggle or anything to let him know he doesn’t like the proximity, so he doesn't either.

"Man our project is gonna kick ass," Dean says as Cas folds his laptop shut, review clear in his brain.

Sam laughs without looking up from his book. "Yeah if you can actually present it."

"Whatta you gettin' at?"

"You're terrible at presentations. I've seen you before. You move your feet too much and start rambling about other stuff. Trust me, Cas. You better do most of the talking."

Cas is busy with a pb&j in one hand, scratching away in a sketchbook with the other. Concern tips his eyebrows though he doesn’t lose his focus.

Great, thanks Sam. "Hey alright, alright. Maybe I have stage fright or something, who doesn't? And I might get a little case of the shakes and can't look anyone in the eye but I definitely don't _ramble_ , rambling is what WW2 grandfarts do and I-"

Cas touches his knee. "Dean."

"Yeah, what?"

"I believe you were just rambling."

"Oh. This is going to suck."

"It's alright, Dean,” he assures. “I'm also terrible at giving presentations. From what I’ve been told, I mumble and don’t properly engage my audience.”

Dean pinches his eyebrows together. “You? Mumble? No way.”

“Yes,” Cas says earnestly, all that sarcasm wasted on him. “So I guess we'll have to be terrible, together."

"Yeah," he halfway breathes. Crap, isn't he a little old to get butterflies? He pulls himself out of the pool of Cas' eyes with a shiver, happening to steal a look at the sketchbook in his lap.

"Woah. Did you just draw that?" Dean asks.

"This? Yes. Would you like to see?"

Dean places his hands under Castiel's warmer ones holding the book  to get a closer look, telling his butterflies to chill the heck out. It's Sam. It's just a little pencil sketch but everything is on-point: hair curtained over his eyebrows, the freckle left of his nose, the hand holding his book open. He can _feel_ Sam's immersion in his reading, some quiet little moment Castiel had managed to put on this paper.

" _Dude_ ," Sam's eyes are wide, staring at his 2D twin.

"I didn't know you were some kinda Picasso," Dean whistles.

"Picasso's work was much more subjective. This is more so a Rembrandt," Cas mumbles. He blushes either from the attention or the refrigerated breeze blowing past, his pretty cheekbones glowing like Rudolph’s nose right before Dean's eyes. Why does he suddenly look perfect in that stupid sweater?

"You can have it if you want, Sam," he offers.

"For real?"

Cas signs the portrait, _for Sam from Castiel_ , then gingerly tears it and hands it over like it's nothing special. "For real."

"Aw thanks, dude. Yeah if I show this to our mom, she'll probably frame it and hang it up."

"He ain't kiddin'," Dean nudges Cas' shoulder. "Hey do you mind if I flip through your other stuff? Just, I mean if you don't care-"

Cas hands it over and resumes eating his sandwich with two hands. "Be my guest."

Woah, again. Cas can work some serious mojo with just a chintzy number two pencil. His pad is full of things: animals, people he doesn't recognize, people he does recognize like Mr. Crowley with his feet propped on his desk, landscapes, and a coffee cup, each one so charmingly real he could stare at them for hours. But he doesn't want to be creepy so he hands it back, wondering how the hell he does it, if he has dozens of sketchbooks full of masterpieces tucked away in his bedroom, if he’ll ever get to see them some day, because he suddenly really wants to.

"Tell me you're gonna go to some A grade art school to become 'America's Next Top Artist'."

"Seriously. You could get scholarships with that," Sam agrees.

"That's the plan," Castiel says over the _bing bong_ of the bell. They all groan as they get up and Dean's left side where Cas was is warmer than his other. The noise of other kids passing through the yard fills up their space like a drink being poured in an empty cup, laughing and shouting. Someone quotes The Lord Of The Rings. Castiel shakes his blanket out and rolls it up with practice to shove in (apparently) Mary Poppins' backpack.

"Wish us luck Sammy," Dean salutes, heading off to class with Cas bumping into him, sending tiny sparks up his arm.

"Yeah," Sam waves, picture still in his hand. "You need it."

**  
  
**

*

**  
  
**

"Wait, you said _what_?" Jo practically snorts and loses the balance of her stretch. Her damp skin shines a bit sickly under the gymnasium fluorescents until she runs a slim hand across her forehead, softening it.

Dean lays spread-eagle on the sticky, chocolate bar sectioned gym mats, resting after practice. He sighs, tongue catching the roof of his mouth to make an exasperated noise. "I tried to say "gingiva" and said "gonorrhea", okay?"

Jo holds a hand over her bare belly to contain her laughter. "You- you said _gonorrhea_? How did you even manage that?"

The rest of the team looks over at the two of them in their secluded corner, confusion plain on their faces.

"The words sorta sound the same and it just slipped out, okay? It wasn't _that_ funny," Dean grumbles.  

The flyer’s laughing spell ends with a sigh. "Oh I'm sure it was _hilarious_ in class. And on what planet do those two words sound the same?"

He glares at her and her cute crinkled nose. She's right, it _was_ hilarious- for everyone laughing at him.

He was standing there at the podium beside Cas, giving his bit of the presentation without so much as a hitch in his voice or a shuffle of feet. No lie he was feelin’ pretty awesome. Then like some freak traffic accident, he flubbed it all up. Damn he wasn't much of a _blusher_ , but in that cringe-worthy moment as the silent iced over lake of the room broke apart in a fit of laughter, his face felt like it does when he peers into the oven's mouth to check a roast. But no sooner had he began to correct himself did Cas band-aid him with a charming save:

"What Mr. Winchester meant to say was _gingiva_ , or gums. As you can see here, these gums are rather healthy and pink, obviously not affected by gonorrhea."

Mr. Crowley pitched his opinion in. "That's correct, Mr. Novak. I'm glad at least one of my students was paying attention during our last movie day. It seems we need to have a _refresher_." That elicited a horrified silence from the chattering classroom. Mr. Crowley's _movie days_ were the things you got your parents to write fake doctor's notes for in order to avoid.

Then Cas shared a coyly triumphant look with Dean and they continued on.

"Just shut up," Dean tells Jo, trying in vain to keep up his surly facade.

She purses her lips, all sass. "How could you could speak to a girl like that, Winchester?"

“Haha.” He can't ever be mad at her, when her tomboy nature, clever jabs and highlighted curls do so well to soften all the times she’s heartlessly turned him down. It’s a little flirty game they play, played ever since they met, so he really isn’t sure if she’d date him or just likes playing hard to get more than their few impromptu make out sessions.

Once they're stretched out like pieces of taffy they fold up their mats and stack them, and he's about to try and coerce Jo into going for ice cream with him when Bela makes her way over. "You two care to join the troupe so we can finalize the plans for _your_ brilliant idea, Dean?" She asks, crossing her arms. Dean wonders how she fits all of herself inside herself so neatly.

After Coach Garth oversees a few grueling rounds of the "majority wins" game, the team decides the movie night will be next Friday at eight and they'll charge six dollars admission to see The Avengers. Ann Marie and Robin will make up fliers, Becky, Amelia and Ruby will work concession, Jo and Lisa will take care of tickets at the booth, and Bela and Dean will handle the projector. He would prefer Jo to hang with him and the projector and maybe score some spit swap action while a giant alien whale destroyed half of New York City, but life isn't fair.

"Good, so everybody's set," Coach claps his hands together, smiling over them apprehensively, the way you look at a pack of wild dogs. No one should ever question his tenacity for coaching a team of high school girls.

After Jo flat out says no to his barely voiced offer to get ice cream later, Dean ducks out of the gym and hustles down the hall to the weight room, to get in a quick workout before going home.

He drops his gym bag on the grimy black tile he’s sure no one ever mops and fiddles with the room’s radio, finding a station. He adjusts the pounds on the bench press because some assclown in here before him must be lying to themselves or fulfilling a dare with 250 lbs on the bench. He takes a deep breath before laying down on the sticky vinyl, realizing he should’ve kept his shirt on, gross. He grimaces but picks up the long dumbbell with a grunt and pumps his arms, mind wandering elsewhere as he finds an easy rhythm.

He promised Mom and Sam tonight was chili night. It was a pain to get up and hour earlier to sear the ground beef, chop tear-inducing onions and peppers and wash a bunch of beans, but it should be worth it. _If_ nobody touched his crockpot, like last time. Burnt chili was a whole different level of gross. Other than that it should be perfect and ready to go by the time he gets home. The only thing he needs to do is bake the cornbread, a recipe he can complete with his eyes closed, probably. Maybe Mom will invite Uncle Bobby over, he loves chili. Guy likes any home cooked food actually, since he’s extra busy at the auto dump with hardly any time to cater to himself. He can’t wait to work there all summer again and make good money, can’t wait to be eighteen soon so Dad can’t bitch about him never bein’ around-

Okay, his arms are screaming. He puts the bar back in its perch with a heavy clink and sits up, heaving a breath that dives deep into his lungs only to catch in his throat on the way out. Cas is standing there, halfway through the open door with a face that reminds him of a dog caught pooping on the carpet.

“Hello Dean.”

**  
  
  
  
**

* * *

 

**  
  
**

Art club lets out just after 2:00 and Castiel dawdles on his way out, chatting with Ms. Masters and complementing Heather’s oil painting of an empty box even though he doesn’t really get the concept of it. He fully intends to stop by the weight room and see Dean on his way to the parking lot where he can get in his Subaru, go home, eat a snack, crack open his new book and lie to himself thinking he’ll be able to retain any of its words with thoughts of a certain be-freckled boy floating around his brain. Dean’s warm leg pressed into his at lunch, Dean’s reverence for his (what he himself thought was shoddy) art, Dean’s endearing slip up in class, Dean’s green eyes silently saying thanks, Dean standing closer to him afterward.

He's just on the fence about actually _talking_ to Dean this time, unlike all the other times where he just violated his privacy. Besides it's what friends do, right? Right.

As per usual the hall is emptier and quieter than a donut hole as he peeks through the window to make sure Dean is in there and- _oh_. Dean is in here alright. He and his arms; maintaining a steady up, down crank with the dumbbell, lifting at the bench. His sneakered feet lift of the ground just the slightest with every push, midsection tensing in tandem, bare and actually glittering with perspiration. This is the most of _Dean_ Cas has ever seen, all the muscles  flexing under shiny skin, and he isn't ashamed to say he's enamored. He is ashamed, however, when his force of habit makes him check Dean’s grey shorts for a sign of bright colored lace. He finds panties easily enough, the boy’s legs open as an obtuse angle. They’re kale green, he thinks, laceless. It fits his skin.

He patiently waits for Dean to finish then opens the door, locking eyes with only a foot in the room.

"Hello Dean," he says, holding up a hand for a weak wave. _Oh no, what if he knew I was there? Watching him like a dirty voyeur?_

Dean sits up and says hey, breathing deeply. The rhythm of his chest is mesmerizing, and he has a little tummy, Cas notices. Just a little extra bit of tissue at the base his smooth looking abs. For someone so active he wouldn't picture a smidge of fat on Dean but he doesn’t care, he likes it. He wouldn’t really care if Dean had a pentagram tattooed on his chest. "What's up?" Dean asks.

"Oh, um... nothing," Cas now realizes. Why did he even come if he had nothing to talk about?

Dean gives him a _well okay_ look and a laugh. He stands up, peeling his sweaty skin off the bench and stretches his  freckled arms. "Um, okey dokey then. Hey guess what? We're doing movie night, it's official now. Avengers at eight next Friday, football field."

"That's good, Dean. I’m glad I could help out."

"Yeah. I'll see you there, right?" Dean questions, pulling a traitorous shirt out of his green gym bag and popping his head through the collar like a daisy from the ground. "I'll put in a good word for you with the staff, totally VIP. Free ticket, free popcorn? Hell, I'll even pick you up, call it a date if you want."

 _A date_? Cas bites the inside of his lip to keep his dopey grin contained. "Okay, if you want."

"Cool. So, seven good for you?"

“Seven is good.”

On his way out, Dean pats his shoulder and actually winks at him. “Good. Better not stand me up!”

The doors swing shut on Dean’s departure and Castiel is more or less a tree stump; rooted in place with his head no where to be found. A guitar solo draws him out of his fog and he goes over to the radio Dean had left on, cutting Led Zeppelin off in mid-chorus. A date, with Dean. Maybe it was just silly play talk but right now he did not care. Suddenly he doesn’t want to hole up in his room with a book. He picks his phone out of his pocket and sends a text to Gabe, asking if he wants to get ice cream after school.

**  
  
**

*

**  
  
**

This ice cream parlor is Gabriel's favorite because they offer the tiny colorful marshmallows from the Lucky Charms cereal as a topping, Cas likes it for the ambiance. He remembers the first time he came here with his family  in second grade, thought it must be a separate division of the Willy Wonka factory he’d seen countless times on his old VHS tape, and nothing has changed since. Candy pinstripe wallpaper, retro booths and tables all red pleather and chrome, same white haired older man working the counter in his same paper hat.

“So how’s highschool artist life comin’, bucko?” Gabriel asks, licking a piece of blue marshmallow out of his teeth.

Cas shrugs a bit, finding the last walnuts in the dregs of his sundae. “Better. I only have four more pieces to complete by May.”

“Hot damn, good going,” Gabe smacks his arm, making him drop his spoon. “And once you get a full ride to school, you can come live with me!”

“If Dad doesn’t have anything to say about it,” he says lightly, picking up his spoon.

Gabriel’s expression darkens and leans in a bit, mouth a tight, faint line. “If he has something to say about it, he can bring it up with me.”

His brother’s sudden anger takes him down a peg. “Gabriel, I don’t want-”

“I mean it, Cas. If there’s anything I could see you having a good future in, it’s this. Not that you’re not as smart as I am, you’re just an airhead. Anyway why do you think I dropped Dad’s “plan” for me? I thought maybe he was so pushy with the law school thing because he just wanted what he thought was best for me, was looking out for me. After he knocked my lights out I realized _pretty_ dang quick that he’s just a control freak, has been for a long time. Come on, Cas. Are you gonna let Dad plop you into some stuffy college just because you get good grades in Trigo _bore_ try?”

Cas stares at his ice cream dish, waiting for it to speak for him. Gabriel is right, of course. Dad has already spoken to him, or actually, spoken _at_ him about his college admissions. Cas didn't dare say anything back without Gabe or Anna present. What else could he do? “I know,” Castiel sighs. He doesn't want to talk about this right now. He wants to talk about Dean.  “I have a date next friday.”

As he’d predicted, Gabe’s black mood peels off like a sticker and he sits up straight, astonished. “You? A date? Who’s the lucky duck?”

Cas clears his throat, a nervous reflex. “Dean. He um, he was the one who asked me. Well, it’s not exactly a _date_ ,” he corrects, embarrassed by the way his stomach tap dances on the word. “He invited me to the movie night, and offered to pick me up. We’re friends. I don't think it's actually a date.”

Gabe watches him fidget with glee. “Oh my little Casanova… You’re 6 feet under the gooey sweetness of a high school crush. Hang on, are we talking about the _cheerleader_ Dean?”

“There are no other ‘Dean’s at school, so yes.”

His older brother sucks in a whistle. “Hoo boy. He’s a cat. A panther. _Rowr_.”

“What do you mean?”

He swallows the rest of his ice cream, wincing. “Well I mean, why else does a guy make co-captain of the cheer team? To be surrounded by _girls_ 24/7! Him and that Bela slice, the co-captains of squad Aphrodite, sheesh. I also might care to mention she's Bela _Talbot_. As in, our Daddy's boss' _daughter_ , Bela Talbot. So, talk about a power couple.”

“Oh.” His chest deflates like a punctured inner tube. Of course Dean didn't like him like that. He was getting too hopeful, thinking there was something in his eyes like sun shining on spring leaves when they looked at each other, something special in the smiles he coined just for him. Dean probably handed those quirks out to all the pretty girls he could get in his position, which Cas knew was plenty. But he kept circling back to one crucial detail: what about the panties? Why did a boy so attracted to girls wear panties? He drops his spoon in his bowl and sighs, the prospect beyond his grasp. _What are normal people’s relationship issues like?_

Gabe sees his distress and leans into the table again, subdued. “Hey, I’m sorry bro. I didn't mean to drive a rusty shank in the gut of your joy. Take it from me, Grandmaster break up. No girl can ever handle my flawless personality. Or boy, anyway. Not that I’ve sampled that side of the fruit platter.”

“I’ve hardly sampled any side of it,” Cas says. How’s he to know which fruits he likes the best? Strawberries? Bananas? Kiwi? That being said, his infatuation with Dean hadn't shocked him, he didn't sit up in bed at night grappling with the fact that he liked a boy. No, he likes Dean, for Dean. And he likes oranges, because they taste good and smell good. Same concept.

They get up to leave and Gabe pats his back, clicking his tongue. "Welp, for your sake little bro I hope it is a date."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Follow](http://calamity-annie.tumblr.com/) me on tumblr for updates!


	4. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you and Dean together?”  
> He snaps back around like a rope coiled too tight. “I, um…Together?” She nods, and he thinks about it, trying his hand at making a joke. “At this moment we aren’t together but when he gets back we will be… together...” he laughs nervously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, sorry for the lateness, but here you go, enjoy~

This past week seemed to fly by, between finalizing the movie night, planning dinner, doing homework and chipping in at the auto dump with Uncle Bobby, it was already Friday night. _The_ night. Cruising along a stretch of highway hugged by the green of a forest reserve on one side, Dean listens for directions from Sam playing GPS in the passenger seat.

"Okay, you're gonna make a right onto, uh, Padalecki road?"

Dean squints. "What kinda name is that?"

"I don't know, I didn't name it. Look, there it is!"

“I see it, I see it.” Dean curves onto what he thinks is a side road leading to a regular little white bread chunk of suburbia, until he sees the gate.

"Woah." Dean hits the brakes before a tall white gate, all posh and fairytale-like in the bruised orange sun. The directions Castiel gave to get to his house were Kindergarten to follow, he lived in a community called Oasis Plains and judging by the lovely sign to his left, this was it. But Cas didn't mention anything about a gate to the Magic Kingdom on the way. They idle for a moment, engine rumbling patiently so. The gate doesn't open.

"Uh... Was there some sort of secret code Cas forgot to give you?" Sam asks, reading over the directions again.

Dean shrugs, looking around for some other sort of entry. _If nothing else_ , he thinks, _maybe we’ll just bust in_. Before he can formulate a proper break in, a short guy saunters out of the little toothpaste green gatehouse. He probably thinks his collared shirt monogrammed with the community's name, shiny clipboard and khakis give off the message of authority, but to Dean his puggish face and skin as fair as an egg white give off a stronger message: nerd. Dean rolls eyes and his window down for him.

"Good evening sir," the gatekeeper greets. His name tag labels him 'Harry'. He can't be much older than Dean. "How may I be of service to you on this bella noche?"

Geez. "Uh, yeah. I'm here to see somebody."

"Mhm, may I ask your name and who might you be here to see?"

He stops himself from saying _your mom_ by the skin of his teeth. "Dean Winchester, I'm here for Castiel Novak."

Harry looks over his clipboard and taps his it with his pen. "Alright, I'll have to go check the system for a right a passage, so sit tight and give me uno momento."

He returns to his post and Sam laughs. "Sheesh... High security around here, huh? He's likea dwarf or something."

Dean snorts, shaking his head. "Tell me about it. Wonder if they got all seven of um." Thankfully the gate begins to part, and Harry salutes him, motioning for him to go ahead. Dean shouts thanks and drives on through, mumbling, "nerd," under his breath.

Sam tells him Cas' house is on Collins at the very end, so they keep a look out for street signs. Every single house they pass is on the grandeur side of the spectrum; two stories surrounded by plush beds of flowers and little trees somehow still thriving despite the cold. Every clean shaven driveway harbors a shiny car, a spiffy boat. A pack of clean-clothed brats checks both ways before zooming across the street on scooters, actually wearing helmets.

"Ugh. Living in a place like this would freak me out," Dean mutters.

"Why?" Sam asks, observing the houses as they pass.

"The manicured lawns, houses all sharing the same DNA, the 'how was your day honey'? No thanks."

"Speak for yourself."

Cas' section of the fancypants neighborhood is even nicer, if at all possible, and Cas' house is possibly the best, gooiest chocolate in the box with a bit of coconut sprinkled on top. Shaped of all sandy colored stones patched with big bright windows and a whale of a garage, it could easily house two barns under its intimidating pointed roofs. The circle driveway is trimmed in handsome green shrubbery, and Dean is apprehensive to park on it, much less honk his horn like a hooligan to let Cas know he's here. Grumpy might hop out of the hedges and blow a whistle.

"Huh," Dean says, impressed. "I didn't think Cas was some sort of prince."

Sam doesn't miss a beat. "So does that make you his prin _cess_?"

Dean smacks the back of his head and he winces. "Just for that, you're sitting in the back. Get."

"Jerk," Sam mutters, hopping into the backseat.

The big red front door of the Novak castle opens halfway and Cas steps out, hugged by the soft glow spilling from inside. He has his signature quilt pressed to his chest and smiles when he sees Dean, holding up a finger asking to hold on a second. He's talking to someone inside the castle. Dean wonders if it's his Dad, whom he hasn't heard much about. All he knows is Cas never talks about the guy and if he's ever brought up somehow, the kid's face kinda shuts down, his eyes drift off. No matter how much he'd like to, Dean doesn't ask. He gets what it's like.

"Don't try to tell me you don't have some kinda thing for him," Sam prods, stealing his attention back.

Dean leers at the short stack through the rearview mirror. "A thing? What do you mean by a 'thing'? What kind of a ' _thing_ '?"

Sam snorts. "C'mon dude. When you aren't talking about the squad or your car or work or what to cook for dinner, you're talking about him."

"Oh that is _so_ not true," Dean disagrees, shaking his head. "Can it, Sammy." Did he though? He remembers mentioning him in a passing conversation with his mom earlier, how Cas could read latin. Then yesterday he talked to Bobby about a sketch Cas did of an old '64 Ranchero until he told Dean to cool his jets. And he may have mentioned him a few extra times on the car ride here… Crap.

"You were literally just giving him heart-eyes five seconds ago," Sam says.

Dean spins around in his seat.  "Those were _friend_ -eyes. I don't do _heart_ -eyes."

"Well I only ever see you look that way at a fresh peach pie or your car after you've tuned it up so what else would you call it?"

"I'd call it you better not make me come back there and stick my dirty boot in your-"

A knock on the passenger side window wraps up their argument. Oh right, it’s the person they're arguing about. Cas opens the door and peers inside with Prince Charming blue eyes before sliding in, bringing the chill with him.

"Am I interrupting something?"

****  
  


* * *

****  
  


Castiel paces, following the stripes of the rug in the entryway. He checks the clock again. 7:04. Dean should be here soon. He plays with a loose string on the quilt Uncle Lucifer had made for him years ago when he went through his brief quilting craze, it being the only quilt he actually finished and gave to his "favorite" nephew for Christmas. Uncle Luce is always busy with a new hobby like that and it drives Uncle Michael (his husband), crazy. Castiel decides it’d be best to cut off the loose end before he ends up unraveling the whole thing with idle hands. He finds the scissors in the kitchen junk drawer and carefully snips the lost little red thread away.

For the past week, time seemed to crawl towards the only highlight: tonight. Since the initial invite, he waited every day for Dean to call him up and cancel, say he's going with a girl from the squad instead, sorry buddy. But his let-down hadn't come to pass and now he's bristling with barely contained excitement, which is why Gabriel’s sharp turn into the kitchen makes him start.

“So Deano’s gonna be here soon,” his older brother says idly, in a way that let's Cas know he's acting like he isn't secondhand excited about it as well. He searches the fridge for another chocolate milk, cracking the cap off one and taking a swig. He's probably taking a break from grading papers. Conveniently, Dad’s on a business trip until Tuesday, something about a board meeting somewhere in Chicago. So Gabe’s free to drink all the chocolate milk he can stomach, sit in Dad's personal office and prop his not so elegant feet up on Dad’s personal desk. "Ah, this stuff's better than booze, trust me."

"I wouldn't know." Cas replaces the scissors and fills his lungs to the brim in an attempt to balance his nerves, when the _honk honk_ of a car horn makes him jump.

“That him?” Gabe asks, racing to the entryway and peeking out the blinds by the front door. Adoptive brothers or not, being nosy is a trait they share. “Well, it’s either him or it’s Bruce Wayne taking Sam for a spin in his casual ride.”

Castiel opens the front door and figures out what Gabe meant when he sees a grandfather of a car staring back at him; a sharp black body grooved with chrome, engine emitting a metallic growl. Wow. Dean is there in the driver’s seat of course, instantly wringing a smile out of him. He holds up a “one moment” finger because Gabriel is blabbering to him.

“If he takes you somewhere weird call 911 immediately and make sure your phone’s GPS is on, better safe than sorry. And don’t hesitate to text me for flirting pointers or a stingray-smooth icebreaker. And here, take this pack of gum. You want kiss-worthy breath, but don’t chew gum and smooch 'cos that ain’t classy, got it?”

“I-I, I told you it’s not a date,” Cas mumbles as his brother crams the green package into his back pocket, his ears baking.

“Well yeah but you gotta always be ready,” Gabe nudges his cheek with his knuckle all the way out the front door, barely letting him spit out a goodbye. “Go get ‘em tiger!” He calls. Cas is grateful the windows of Dean’s car are rolled up.

He approaches the Winchester Mobile as nonchalantly as he can, but neither Winchester is paying him any mind; Dean's turned around pointedly frowning at Sam who's smirking, egging him on. They do this often, fight. The first time they squabbled in front of him he was on the edge of his seat, just waiting for one of them to storm off after the other spit something hateful. Yet they always make up with affectionate insults and he came to realize by and by it’s normal for them.

Cas taps on the window before opening the passenger door with an antique creak and sits on the spacious front seat. “Am I interrupting something?” He asks, seeing the “caught in the cross hares " look on Dean’s face.

“Uh, nope. Just telling Sammy here it’s okay to wear makeup if he wants, I won’t judge.”

Sam’s eyes flick to the ceiling, purely contemptuous. “I just wanted to be sure I looked good for Cas, like how you spent an extra half hour in the bathroom.”

Dean grapples for something to say, sputtering out, “that’s- that’s not even- okay can we just go now?” Cas finds himself grinning out the window.

The drive to the school is a comfortable one bathed in an undertone of classic rock, minus the feeling of swinging too high on a swing ever present in his stomach. They reach the school parking lot and pile out of the car to cut right in front of the line of people for the ticket table (who are not so pleased about Dean’s brashness). Two girls are stationed here, one fair haired and one olive-skinned. He recognizes them as Jo and Lisa from English class.

“You actually showed,” Jo says to Dean, waving at Sam, who waves back.

“A 'course I did, I’d like to keep my balls attached... Heya Lisa,” Dean gives her a little wave and she smiles, showing supremely white teeth.

“Hey Dean, hey Sam,” Lisa greets. When she gets to Cas, she squints. “Hey, you’re… We have English together right? Castiel.”

Cas nods. He likes Lisa, she sits in front of him in class and has nice posture for drawing reference. “Yes. Hi Lisa." But he isn't sure about Jo, who gets in trouble for talking in class. "Hello Jo."

She grins. "Hey. Big date tonight, huh?"

After Cas trips over his speech, they get their tickets and Sam runs off to be with his friends, it’s just the two of them. Like a date. Castiel’s insides dance a samba as they walk in the direction of the big projection screen, neither speaking. The field lights rinse the stadium bowl of grass in bright, shadow constricting light, people quickly filling up the space to stake their claims with blankets and fold-up chairs. There’s a swirl of cold air carrying happy chatter to brush by Castiel’s cold ears and Dean slides his hands inside the pockets of his burgandy-sleeved letterman jacket, boots smashing the already buzzcut grass in each step.

“Where are we going to sit?”

Dean sniffs, rubbing his reddening nose. “We gotta sit near the front at the projector with Bela, make sure everything runs smooth. Boring, I know, but it’s the best seat so...” his eyes slide to him coyly, but Castiel’s nervous excitement goes belly-up.

Bela. Dean’s _slice_ , as Gabe had put it. Castiel can already see it unfold: Dean’s arms wrapped around his co-captain while he sits awkwardly off to the side, spinning helplessly like the third wheel he is on this "not a date" bicycle. Way to get worked up over nothing special.

“There she blows,” Dean says. Castiel follows his lead to find her standing by the little cyclops robot of the projector, her pale brown hair flipping in the wind. He personally might not find her attractive as most seem to, but he’d be blind to say she isn’t stunning. He’s only ever spoken to her once-- she called him a doll when he loaned her a pencil in 10th grade, which she still hasn't returned. Dean always returns his pencils, even if they're returned indented with little teeth marks.

“You made it,” Bela says when she sees them, her English accent barbed with disdain.

Dean scoffs, he and Cas coming to a stop a few feet from her. He doesn't step to her for a hug, a kiss, anything. Just stands right beside Cas so close he can feel the sleepy kitten of his heat. “Well, _duh_. Why does everyone think I'd flake?”

She shrugs daintily, crossing her arms over her furry-hooded coat. “Because you’re difficult, is all. Who’s the quiet one?” She asks, her eyes slicing into Castiel. His heart hops, then _leaps_ when Dean throws his arm around Castiel's shoulder blades, giving him a squeeze.

“This is my buddy Cas. He's a hoot. Right Cas?"

Cas swallows. “Hello Bela.” _You owe me a pencil._

Her head tilts and the corners of her lips pull up in the slightest, as if she's reading something written all over his face. "Hello, Cas. You're Mr. Novak's brother, that right?"

"Uh, yes."

She nods as if to say 'I thought so'. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise."

With Dean's help he spreads his quilt flat, flush with Bela's knitted blanket. He settles into his spot while the co-captains fiddle with the little cyclops machine, definitely not noticing how Dean’s hands casually brush with Bela’s. “That should do it,” she announces, straightening up to lean on the machine. “Go let them know we’re ready to go.”

Dean makes a face at her. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Bela just stares at him, waiting.

His face collapses. “Okay, I’m going. You kids play nice now,” he grumbles, stomping off before Cas can volunteer to go along. Dean  tosses him a quick parting glance like he'd thought of it too but it's too late, he's already just another dab of color in the impressionist painting of the crowd. He hopes his face isn’t painted with the claws of terror he feels climbing up his throat, having to be left alone with Bela Talbot. Their merciful silence doesn't last long enough.

“So Cas, are you having fun yet?”

He drags his gaze up to meet hers, and even though her expression comes off as casual, theres just something about her face; so unwittingly critical, as if she’s been discerning the meaning of his existence since formally meeting five minutes ago.  He pretends to fix the lace of his hi-top and says, “I guess so. I um, I’ve never really been to a school function.”

“Surely you’ve been to an assembly of sorts,” she chides, smiling slow and contained like a cat. It's hard to say whether she’s making fun _of_ him or making fun _with_ him.

“Well, yes, those are hard to evade.”

“Mhm, so I've heard.”

He runs out of things to fidget with and turns back to search for the safety flag of Dean’s school letterman.

“Are you and Dean together?”

He snaps back around like a rope coiled too tight. “I, um…Together?” She nods, and he thinks about it, trying his hand at making a joke. “At this moment we aren’t _together_ but when he gets back we will be… together...” he laughs nervously.

She isn't too keen with his joke and he doesn't blame her. “I mean _romantically_ , not physically. You boys and your sarcasm.”

“I- no,” he stammers, shaking his head three times. _What is she talking about?_

Without a break she asks, “but you’d fancy that, I gather.” She says it directly, making a statement he can't disagree with. So he doesn’t say anything, just averts his eyes and feels the temperature of his neck begin to climb, feeling awfully conspicuous and glued to the spot like a sequin.

“But... Aren't you and Dean together?” he asks, voice wavering with unease.

She looks like she just heard a joke that was only funny because it'd been misdelivered. “Us? That's sweet..." She pouts, putting a manicured hand over her heart. "But by all means, no.”

“...Oh.”

"And believe me I've given the crab a go, a few times actually. I think our strong personalities tend to cancel each other's out. And if his habits have anything to to say about it don't think he'd like himself shackled to anyone for far too long a time." She purses her lips and picks something out from under her thumb nail, the mood of this conversation as dull as talking about trying a different brand of toothpaste. "Something tells me he likes you, though. The way he just about hangs off you like a bloody skin tag. You're something else. But hell, what do I know?" She laughs, mostly to herself.

All Cas can say again is "oh." She doesn't say anything more about it and he doesn't either, focusing on something like a sunrise happening in his head. If Bela was speaking the truth, that would mean... Dean likes him? She has no reason to lie about it, right? _So maybe this_ is _a date_. His former joy trickles down his back and he relaxes a little, only to flinch when someone drops down beside him.

It's just Dean. “Everything’s squared away, your Bossiness,” Dean says, saluting two fingers off the top of his head. Bela says something Cas doesn't really hear and flicks a switch on the projector. The little machine spews the light of the beginning credits onto the big screen, the field lights extinguish with a deep sigh and a chorus of happy cheers erupts all around, a few people squeal, scared of the abrupt darkness. Bela's silhouette returns to her blanket and pulls it up from the ground, the grass beneath it bending back humbly.

"Woah, where you goin'?" Dean asks her over the King of the Chitauri's spiel.

"To sit with my galpals. I think you've got it covered, Squirrelly. I'll be seeing you, Cas," she bids him with some knowing, secret gleam in her eyes. It strikes him like a static shock from a doorknob that she just now could've thrown him under a metaphorical bus, mangling his dignity to the point of no return-- and didn't. Well, not yet anyway. But he can't control that.

As she retreats Dean turns to him in the dark, his eyebrows cocked skeptically. "What'd you two talk about?"

"Nothing much," he offers, bittersweet lie on his tongue.

Dean just stares into his eyes for a moment that makes him hot all over. Then he grins, his teeth and eyes reflecting the icy glow of the tesseract. Cas starts to wonder if he smiles like that only when he's around to see it. "Well whatever it was, thanks."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You're welcome," Castiel says, for getting Bela to beat it. Thank God. She's only okay in small, aggravating doses.

Dean looks away from him now before he melts, his blue eyes actually glowing due to the light of the magical space cube thing on the screen. Rubbing through the tension and baby hairs on the back of his neck, he stands up again and holds out a hand down to Cas. "I'm, uh, I'm gonna go get popcorn," he says, hearing his voice come out too gruff like he swallowed a bear. "You wanna come?"

Cas takes his hand and Dean helps pull him up. "Sure. You said it'll be free right? I am 'VIP' after all."

Forgetting where they are, Dean snorts and before he can speak some idiot behind them yells at them to "get the hell out of the way!" _Whoops_. He flips the dude off and pulls Cas away from their spot quickly, his brain firing messages everywhere because he can make out each of his warm fingers squeezing his own. He doesn't have the heart to let go until they reach the window of little white concrete box of the concession stand and the salty, burnt smell of popcorn sticks inside his nose.

"Geez, how d'you hands stay so warm?" Dean asks, making friction with his refrigerated hands and breathing hot, visible breath on them.

"I'm partial to the cold," Castiel says, letting his hands dangle naked at his sides.

"Yeah well, I'm not. I have lizard hands or something. Yo Becky," he calls.

The gawky blue eyed blonde approaches the counter, immediately turning on the charm for Cas. "Castiel, I didn't know you were gonna be here tonight," she says, her voice and smile a sliver of sunshine, turning overcast when she turns to Dean. "What do you need, Dean?"

"Well hi to you too, Becky. Where'd your associates go?" He asks, peering over her shoulder. Amelia and Ruby were supposed to be here.

"They left me to sit with the rest of the squad," she says pitifully. "Now do you need something or not?"

"Oh. Well, can we get two boxes of popcorn? Please."

"Sure." She turns to the glass compartment of the popcorn machine and fills two paper boxes to the brim and sits them on the counter, steaming in the cold air. "That'll be $3."

Dean sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Well you see, I was under the impression we'd be getting the VIP deal, so how about you slip us those boxes of the white grain under the table?"

"There is no table."

"It's an expression."

Her eyes roll in perfect loops. "Dean I'm sure you can pay the three dollars. This money is for next year's budget, remember?"

"Yeah, but it's not like I'm gonna be around next year..."

"But half of us _will_ be. Just please pay for the damn popcorn, there's a line."

Before he can stand his ground even further, he sees Castiel open his wallet and hand Becky a five, telling her to keep the change. She smiles smugly and hands the snacks over. "Thank you. This is why I like him better than you," she retorts, waving the next customer forward.

"Awh, buddy you didn't have to do that, I'd almost won her over," Dean frowns, more or less humiliated.

"Just helping the cause," he shrugs, and Dean's stomach flips when Cas lets a piece of popcorn melt on his pink tongue. "Nor did I want a riot to break out."

"Yeah well, whatever."

They walk on the gravel track where it's quieter, a ways behind the big crowd, the movie screen the size of a slice of bread with Iron Man flying across it in the distance. "Why are you a cheerleader?" Castiel asks him suddenly.

His cheeks are full so he chews quickly. "Uh," he swallows, "I dunno. I like... I like the team, we're all friends. And cheering is fun. I took gymnastics when I was little and round-edged. God, that sounds so lame, sorry," he chuckles, staring into his popcorn. "Why did you want to know?"

"I admire you," Castiel says simply, but his voice wobbles, allowing Dean to see past his sheilds. "The way you can do what you want, and don't worry about what anyone thinks of you for it."

 _When did I start sweating_? "You really think all that?" He asks. Cas nods so he goes on, "I mean, I guess I'd just rather cop a give-a-hell attitude and let everyone suck a hairy one. Easier than worrying about everything right? Well between you 'n' me, the truth is I just like gettin' to wear the uniform. The skirt does wonders for my legs, you oughta see me in it." He extends a leg out and high-kicks a few times in his impression of a 1920's flapper girl. He's rewarded with Castiel laughing aloud, his eyes getting squinty and his gums show as pink as his tongue.

Dean doesn't actually wear the girls uniform to cheer in. Only, what Cas doesn't know is he's dead serious about the leg thing. He might've gotten himself a uniform in one way or another, keeps it stashed in a suitcase in the back of his closet and only takes it out some rainy days when no ones home. His head abruptly gutterballs with the idea of wearing it for Cas. Short skirt brushing over his lacy-clad  ass as he bends over, letting Castiel see… He has to shove a big handful of popcorn in his mouth to tone himself down. Choke or chew.

They continue to walk, slow and easy, occasionally checking the movie screen and Dean wonders out loud, "well what about you? You give a damn what anyone thinks a you? No offense, 'cos you sure don't seem to, Bunny Sweater," he taunts, nudging him with his elbow.

He blinks, looking like he hadn't even realized. "I like that sweater."

"Yeah I know you do, you wore it twice this week." And he likes it because it fits him in all the right ways, snug around the chiseled arms he doesn't expect would exist on such a little, dorky guy.

Castiel considers it. "No. I suppose I don't really 'give a damn'," he says, making air quotes. "My Father being the only exception," he adds tentatively.

Dean's cockiness goes flaccid at the mention of Cas' Dad. "Yeah? What about him?"

Castiel stops walking and sighs, his breath billowing out like he's been smoking. His expression is half shadowed in the dim light, complimenting the empty undertone of his voice. "For one thing, he doesn't approve of me pursuing a future in art. He doesn't believe it to be 'reliable'," he says, making air quotes again. "He thinks I'd be better off majoring in math."

Dean grimaces. " _Math_? Who majors in _math_?"

Cas shrugs his shoulders, almost like they're too heavy for him. "I might be. If things go his way."

Dean blows his cheeks out, crumpling his empty popcorn box in his fist with an audible knuckle crack. Unexpected anger and thoughts of his own Dad rise to his lid like a pot of rice boiling over. "Well I'm sorry, but that's a load of crap. He should give a damn that you're the most talented person I've ever seen. And you know what? I forgot to tell you but my Mom _did_ frame that picture of Sammy, it's up with all our other pictures!"

He doesn't realize he's halfway shouting until Castiel plucks one of his waving hands out of the air, like a kid having a rousing tantrum, and holds it between them. "Dean. It's alright. I'm working toward an art scholarship he isn't aware of. If I get it, I can go to art school. And he can't stop me then," he adds a little fiercely.

"...Yeah?"

"Yes. Of course, I'll be in serious trouble with my Father and may have to move out and live with my brother, but everything will work out."

He doesn't look or sound so sure about it but Dean isn't going to push, feeling himself cool like a freshly shaped sword dunked in water. "So that means... No math?"

Cas smiles lightly, features beautifully reshaping in the dark. "No math."

Dean gives his hand a good squeeze, an 'I have about as much faith in your plan as an atheist has in Catholicism, but I can't say otherwise when your hand is too warm and your stormy sea eyes suck me in like this' type of squeeze. "Good."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel has seen The Avengers six times before and tonight was inarguably his favorite time, and funnily enough he'd not even watched a fraction of it. He and Dean spent the night talking and walking in the dark behind the field. And even when they weren't talking, things were good, good enough to give him heart palpitations. He wasn't sure what was the best: oddly feeling safe enough to open up to a boy he's only known a few weeks, having good reason to believe the boy in question liked him, or getting to hold his hand as if it was nothing.

It's late when Dean drives him back home, Sam's messy head lulled back in his seat fast asleep, looking tiny and innocent for once since they've known each other. He must've worn himself out with his friends all night. Cas feels himself slipping off too and fights to keep his eyes open, his posture up. In the peaceable highway _whoosh_ kind of silence he watches various colored lights pass over the dewy windshield, generating a pretty gemstone effect and dotting Dean's face with shadow freckles. They pass a yawn back and forth like a ball on a tennis court and things are good.

He's disappointed when the drive ends too soon and they're idling in his driveway, suddenly feeling like he has nothing to say, and he isn't sure what he should. He settles with something tactless. "That was... fun."

Dean's yawn turns into a laugh, dropping the ball. "Right. No, it was fun. Most fun I've had in awhile, actually."

"Same here."

They stare at each other across an oddly treacherous gap, maybe waiting for something neither of them look like they're ready to do, Cas imagines, so he opens his door and slides out of the best time he's had in a long time. "See you Monday," Dean says after clearing his throat.

"See you Monday," Cas mimics, peering in for a goodbye before shutting his door, circumcising his urge to stay. Dean waits for him to get to the front door (house windows still full of light because Gabe either forgot to shut them off or stayed up waiting for him) and they wave again before Cas slips in and Dean slips away, his car like a vestige of the night itself.

No sooner has he shut the door, locked the deadbolt and and slumped against the vertical wood, drunk from the night, does Gabe pounce on him. "So! How'd it go, Romeo? Uh oh, I know that look. Just tell me y'all  chuckleheads were safe-- lie if you have to."

"Nothing happened," Cas answers honestly. "Nothing like that."

"Well then what did you guys do?"

"We talked, mostly. We ate popcorn."

"Talked and ate popcorn. Well aren't you the romantic?"

Most likely hyped on chocolate milk, Gabe heckles him all the way up to his bedroom while he changes into soft pajama pants, brushes his teeth and climbs into bed with his quilt. It smells like the field still, sharp  with cold and dead grass. "Gabriel?"

"Yep?"

"I want to sleep," he says, clicking off his light. "I'll talk more in the morning."

"Oh. Right, right. Sure." His older brother ffinds his forehead and kisses it before retiring to a silhouette in the doorway, like Bela's silhouette before the movie screen. _Something tells me he likes you_ , she had said. Maybe she was right.

He doesn't fall asleep for long awhile, replaying the highlights of the night on his mind's projection screen.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Kiss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the birthday, the family does most of the talking while Castiel listens, though they make sure to keep him in the loop with questions about him, his family, school-- their cordiality is so seamless he almost feels like part of the family. He's more interested in the retelling of Dean's childhood stories. Dean really was a princess for Halloween when he was seven with a bowl cut, and he would've been a princess twice had his Dad not had a problem with it

Sitting at his hunky square of an architect's desk, Castiel applies the finishing touches on Dean's birthday present. An 10 by 12 inch charcoal drawing of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala-- Dean's car, his "baby". Although Dean admitted it’s only his when his Dad isn’t home (which is a lot), so it’s technically not his. Castiel did his best to duplicate its ghostly mirror gleam with his pencils, slick as oil. After four bottom-numbing hours of staring at a reference picture on his computer and his paper, he thinks he's just about got it right. He's already picked out a frame.

Earlier today before he could duck into math, his least favorite class of all time since all he can think about in there is how he might be doing useless functions for years to come-- a sharp tug on his arm had him almost losing his books and spinning around to see the littlest Winchester letting go of his coat sleeve and already talking a mile a minute.

"Dean doesn't want me to tell you this but his birthday is this Saturday. We're having a party for him at the house and you're invited to come over if you want to. And spend the night, if, if you want to."

"Sam, uh, hi," Cas fumbled, readjusting his books as they slip from his hands. "That sounds nice, but if Dean doesn't want to include me then I don't want to intrude on--"

Sam cut him off by groaning toward the fluorescents on the ceiling. "My brother is a big idiot, okay? He'll say he doesn't want a party then piss and moan for a week over how nobody came and he didn't get any presents."

"Oh."

"Trust me Cas, he wants you to come over," Sam reassured him. So Cas said he'd love to come, and asked what time.

Now Cas blows the charcoal dust off his paper and examines the flat fruit of his labor before stretching his arms out, to give himself a break. From the wise words of Ms. Masters, "as much as it's important to put your very best effort into everything you create, you gotta be careful not to brown nose it. In other words, don't overwork a piece. Give it a break, have a cup of tea, a nooner, a brownie, whatever juices your batteries. Then come back to it. Just remember kiddo: fresh eyes are your best friend."

So he stands from his chair and rubs his backside through his pajama pants, heading to the kitchen for a late snack.

Which he realizes too late is a bad idea because he's forgotten that his Father did not come home from his Chicago trip today in the best of moods and here he is, ascending the stairs with a sour face trained on him, blowing any hope he had of casually turning tail to the bathroom.

"Son," his Father greets him with interest, bringing to mind the image of Scar from _The Lion King_ when he catches a tiny mouse in his black-clawed paw. "I haven't seen you since I got home."

 _That was the intended plan._ "I'm sorry, hi Dad," Cas says, stuck in place a yard away. Fear has that effect on him, motionlessness. It always has. It could be fear of a wasp sting or a grizzly bear, it didn't matter. If a truck was barreling toward him he'd have an intense staring contest with it before inevitably losing to the collision. "How was your trip?"

"Oh it was dandy, son," he says with a membrane-thin smile on his equally thin lips. "I just _live_ to waste my God damned time trying to work with a bunch of circus-trained morons." Cas mumbles out an apology and his Father asks,

"How was your day?"

To which Cas tosses a simple, "it was fine."

And his Dad hits it out of the park with, "how are those applications coming along?"

Castiel flexes his jaw, readying his mouth to deliver a one word lie. "Fine."

Sardine eyes scrutinize his face, stringing his nerves back like a bow. "Mhm. And you're positive you don't need any help?"

Maybe "fine" wasn't a lie. Because by fine he means that he hasn't even touched the grotesque pile of college application forms his Father hunted and gathered for him since they arrived on his desk, which is fine by him.

"No, no help needed," Cas says.

"Mhm."

They stare at each other in silence until Castiel's legs can function again, to safely sidle past his dad and take himself downstairs for a snack. One foot lands on the first step down only for him to be yanked backwards by his shirt collar. It garrotes his Adam's apple and makes his head feel tight.

"Let me make myself clear," his Father bites his words so close to his ear he can hear teeth clicking together. "I want those applications in the mail _by tomorrow_. Got it?"

Cas swallows against the constriction and croaks, "got it." His Father releases him roughly and he stumbles a bit, coughing and preparing for more fire and brimstone. But it doesn't come. He turns in time to see his Father's bedroom door close, leaving a relieved hollow feeling in his stomach. He rubs his neck, knowing it's pink under his hand. He slumps onto stairs and watches his hands tremble in his lap, bruised with the charcoal of Dean's present.

The applications are easy enough to sabotage with bland, false information-- Gabe taught him that. As long as Dad can watch him carry a stack of neatly addressed envelopes to the mailbox tomorrow morning with a smile, he'll be satisfied. So they aren't a problem. Not now. The problem will come later, in the envelopes of every letter of polite unacceptance he'll receive in return.

Sometimes, times like these especially, he almost wants to give up. To travel the safe route his Father has paved-- no, more so, _steamrolled_ for him through a lifetime’s forest thick with uncertainty. Away from his siblings, from his only talent, from his teachers and his only real friends Sam and Dean. Dean. He isn't ready for how far down the idea of never seeing Dean again resonates in him, like the toll of a heavy iron bell.

****  
  


* * *

****  
  


When the pinch in the air starts to soften against bare skin and the weak green buds of baby leaves are born on the black veins of tree limbs from what seems like just overnight, it's that time again. Dean's birthday.

To put it simply, he hates his birthday. The gifts are nice, yeah, but the rest of it's for the birds. He doesn't like being singled out and made over, minus the brief applause his team receives after a well executed cheer. Nothing like celebrating an exciting year closer to death. Yippee. For those reasons, he almost, _almost_ doesn't want to tell Cas about the birthday party -- _ugh_ \-- he's having this Saturday.

Thanks to having the best grade in Home Ec., Dean takes a vacation to the art classroom on an extended bathroom pass. The shrewd, petite brunette teacher gives him the old once-over when he enters her domain and asks if he can visit Cas. She smirks and says, "sure you can, Twinkle Toes. Just don't distract my unicorn from his work and things'll be just peachy." He thanks her dubiously and finds Castiel in a corner with a four-person table to himself. Cas doesn't pick up his dark head, his face all scrunched in what Dean would guess is artistic concentration until he sits down across from him.

"What's up Warhol?" Dean asks, regretting the terrible name play when it leaves his lips.

Cas looks spooked and hopefully, Dean realizes, not upset about him butting into his private 'arting' time. He’s been quieter than usual today (which is very very quiet) and the hollows below his eyes are shadowed, like he hadn’t gotten enough shuteye. Dean had asked him if he was okay several times, and he’d replied each time with greater reassurance that it was nothing. So that meant _something_. He just didn't want to say what.

"Hello Dean,” Cas says, like he always does. “Did you forget to return your pencil again? It's okay if you don't, y'know. I won't mind."

"Yeah no I uh-- hang on actually," Dean pauses, fishing a borrowed pencil out of his pocket and handing it over.

Cas primly sets it on the table top, _click_. "Thank you. If that's not it then what is it?"

"Oh, I just wanted to ask about the artist who made those thrilling paintings, I was going to make an offer," Dean motions to a wall display of detailed paintings of empty boxes. Cas squints at him a bit. "I'm kidding, man."

Then he smiles, a beacon twinkling through his crummy state. "Oh. Heather does those. And to be completely honest," he leans in closer, face turning serious, "I do not understand them."

Dean scoffs. "Yeah well, you 'n' me both, bud. So listen. I've _mmm_ aybe got a birthday coming up this Saturday, and--"

"I know," Cas interjects without losing sight of his drawing pad.

"You know? How the Hell--"

"Sam told me," Cas' eyes flick up to his from under his eyelashes and back down again, reminding Dean of a trapeze artist swinging by their legs to catch another person flying into their arms. That's what his glances are, perfectly tact and each time Dean has to be careful not to --metaphorically-- fall.

Dean tongues his cheek. "How _nice_ of that little turd. Anyhoo, my Mom'll have my ass if I don't invite you over for the party. She keeps asking when I'll bring you by so she can actually meet you."

"Meet me?"

"Yeah. Meet you."

Sweater Boy smiles a coy one sided smile at his work. "So you've told her about me."

Dean's blush beats him to the punch. He runs his finger over a crudely shaped penis carved into the table top. "Well uh, she really likes your drawing of Sam I guess," never mind that Sam was right when he said Dean brought Castiel up all the time so by this time Mom was just as eager about his new handsome friend as he was. "I'm guessing Sam already filled you in on the details so, will you be there?"

"Hm. I may have to check my schedule, but I think I'll be able to make it. Maybe," Cas says in an uptight manner, sticking him with another glance and smile act. He's joking, Dean knows. Cas really sucks at jokes, which is why his jokes are funny.

"So whatta you drawing?" Dean asks after a minute.

Cas turns his pad around to show him a page of different, perfect flowers drawn in orange colored pencil. "I'm just practicing." _Just practicing._ Dean almost rolls his eyes. "Do you want to try to draw something?"

"Whatta got in mind? I'm a sucky artist so I won't be able to do much besides stick figures and circle trees," Dean digresses.

"We're going to draw each other without looking at our paper."

"Uh, that sounds hard," he says, a little wary as Cas rips a slice of clean paper from his pad and hands it to him with a navy blue colored pencil.

Cas smooths his paper flat, his pencil poised over it, ready to make magic. "That's the idea. It isn't supposed to be perfect, you just do your best. Are you ready?"

Dean says "sure, why not", and Cas says "one two three go", and they're off. Cas starts out quickly with purpose and Dean decides to start slowly with the eyes and work his way outward. Simple.

_Okay here we go. Wait how do you even draw eyes? They're like almonds with peas inside..._

Castiel's doing the same, so for a period of intensity their eyes study each other's. He attempts to portray Cas' kitten nose and trout mouth correctly with what little skill he has.

_No don't look at the paper don't..._

He moves onto outlining the shape of his face, nervously pulling his lips between his teeth because he can feel Cas scrutinizing his mouth, his jaw.

"Dean don't, I can't draw your mouth that way."

"Sorry."

Ears, neck, shoulders. Scratch scratch scratch. The fun part, making heavy messy strokes for his still bed-rumpled hair. Scritch scratch scritch. This isn’t so hard.

_Crap that's the table don't draw on the table, Dean..._

Dean finishes first and announces it by smacking his pencil down, the teacher telling him to "cool it, Da Vinci".

"Done," Cas says. "Now we can look."

Dean looks down and a laugh jumps out of his mouth. He didn't know what he was expecting but this is better than anything he could imagine. It's terrible. It looks like a watermelon with a dead cat on top, two too big eyes in it's, uh, 'hairline' (damn, he forgot the eyebrows!) with a nose and mouth as one entity resembling a trumpet.

He shows Cas, who laughs too. "It's a shame you forgot my eyebrows but all in all, I'd say it's spot-on. Look," he holds his own up for Dean to view, heckling another cackle out of him. It's not much better than his own, in terms of facial structure placement (like his nose on his shovel chin), but there's a definite skill present in the mess, like the fact that Cas can actually draw a nose.

"That was fun," Dean admits, then asks, "Can I have that?"

Cas nods. "Only if you trade for yours."

So they sign their portraits and hand them over and Dean jokes that his Mom will frame this one too. “By the way,” Dean asks in an undertone, hitchhiking his thumb toward the teacher, “why’d she call you 'unicorn?”

Cas ducks his head and blunt fingernails like pale pink seashells card through black coffee locks of hair Dean doesn’t think he could ever recreate. “It's a um, term of endearment. She says I have great talent.”

"That you do," Dean nods. "Spare me another piece of paper, will ya? I wanna try drawing you as a unicorn."

****  


*

****  


Saturday, a few hours before Dean’s party is set to begin, and he and Sam have sprawled themselves on the couch after a round of tidying up, to watch old reruns of _The Twilight Zone_. “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Sam argues, holding his hand up to the screen. “Why would there be a yeti on the wing of the plane? How did it get there anyways?”

Dean shrugs, moving his little brother’s shoulder along with his own. “The dude’s just imagining it. He’s a wacko, like _Donnie Darko_.”

“Who's that?” Sam asks.

Dean sighs, “nevermind.” They could change the channel but he doesn’t care enough to reach the remote on the far corner of the coffee table. Besides the Lysol they’d fogged the place with, the  whole house smells good with Mom’s cooking. It smells like… ham? He hopes it’s ham. He can’t know for sure until it's time to eat since she banned him from the kitchen for the day to keep him from trying to help with anything. She wants to surprise hi, and Sam won’t tell him either. For the scrawny little weed he is, his kid brother isn't one to crack under pressure. It takes determination on the interrogator's part to get him to squeal, so Dean doesn’t bother with the usual tricks like licking his hand and rubbing the back of his neck-- he'd usually go straight for the full nelson if he was feeling up to it.

The phone rings from the quarantined kitchen zone and a pot lid clangs closed, coupled with the airline passenger’s terrified shriek upon seeing the yeti out his pressurized circle window again. “Didn't they realize the yeti would just fly right off the plane?” Sam asks, leering at the TV screen like the aerodynamic inaccuracies offend him personally.

“Apparently not,” Dean says. The phone rings once more before he hears his Mom’s chipper “hello?” funneling from the hall. There’s a pause, some low words he can’t make out over the TV, then a solemn, “okay”. Curious, he sits up and cranes his neck around to see his Mom coming to him with the house phone pressed to her chest and the curly cord cutting into her arm. She's worrying her lip before she can see him looking, then the muscles of her face pull taunt to hide her distress. And he has a pretty good guess why.

“Dean, your Father is on the phone,” she says with forced lightness, for situation's sake. “He'd like to speak with you.”

He and Sam peek at each other before he pushes up from the couch and meets her in the dim little hallway and takes the phone from her. She touches his chin and returns to her cooking, making sure to turn him so he keeps his back to the kitchen. Dean holds the phone to his ear a second before squeezing out, "Hey, Dad."

His Dad's gruff voice curls warm around the words, even with that tin can affect that bad cell reception has. "Hey son. Happy Birthday."

"Thanks Dad," he says, kneading down the good feelings rising from hearing his Dad's voice for the first time in weeks. "How's work?"

Dad either laughs or scoffs, it's hard to tell. "There's only so many engines I can look at in a day, Dean. So you tell me." Mr. Winchester is a field service technician for an airline, which is just a pretentious name for traveling airplane repairman. One week he's it's Topeka, the next week it's Sacramento, inbetween with little time to breeze by home. The pays good, his Dad always says. But not good enough with three at home, a crippling mortgage and a demon craving booze and gambling abroad.

"Not awesome, then, I guess," Dean says, clearing his throat. "So Dad, uh, do you think you'll be home? Y'know like, tonight? Uncle Bobby's gonna be here too so..."

There’s a pause on the other end, the sound of a horn honking, and Dean realizes he must be on the road. Sam is staring at him, head poked over the back of the couch like a kitten laying in wait to pounce on a bug, to figure out what's up. "That’s why I called,” his Father says finally. “I can’t make it back tonight, Dean. I’m laid up in Ferguson on some--”

“Yeah, no, I get it. It’s whatever, Dad,” Dean cuts, ducking his head so Sam can’t see his face. “I hardly expect anything from you anyway, not like today would be different or anything.”

An exasperated grunt. “Dean, Jesus-- don’t act like that. You’re eighteen today for God’s sake. You should act like it.”

“Ha, good one, _Dad_ ,” Dean spits kerosene on the fire, his mouth bitter with it. He knows full well he shouldn't, but his sensibility is lost at the moment. “Maybe you should take your own damn advice for once.”

Now his dad is shouting, fire erupting in a singeing burst. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t make it. But what you need to understand is that what I do is for us, for this family!”

And now Dean is shouting back. “Oh what, you mean being _gone_ all the time and _maybe_ coming home once a month only to sit around getting stupid drunk 'til your kids have to drag you to bed? That’s for us? Well thanks so much!” He could add more to the list, like constantly butting heads with Bobby, his alleged best friend who does nothing but continue to prove to be a better father figure. For one moment being a good Dad by helping Sam with a project and the next moment ripping Dean a new one for "disrespecting" him. Though none of that burns him up as much as when he and mom have it out. It's just the overall wishy wash of his mood, and Dean would love to give his dad more of a chance if he actually worked for it.

"That's enough, boy," Dad snaps and Dean knows they'd be at each other's throats right now if they were in the room together, setting the house on fire. That's how their talks mostly end, charred crater in their wake. His Dad's voice is low now, dangerous in that monster-lurking-just-beneath-the-surface way. "Now you watch out for Sammy, and your mother for me while I'm gone. You hear me?"

Dean grits his teeth, so tightly it hurts and they squeak and it does nothing to soothe the way it feels to submit like this. "Yeah. I will. See you, Dad."

"See you, son."

He takes the phone from his ear, the plastic hot from his talk, and turns to the kitchen entry to hang the phone back in its cradle, _click_. Mom's standing at the island, staring at something far beyond the half-chopped green beans on the cutting board. She's making green bean casserole, one of the few vegetable dishes he'll willingly eat. "High blood pressure is going to be the death of the man one day," she utters. She'll say things like that sometimes, not jokingly, not with tears dripping down her chin, just matter-of-factly, and it humbles him. He can't say why.

"Yeah, well, it'll be his own damn fault," Dean snaps, pressing his back to the wall, feeling himself calm down.

A minute strings itself out and the TV speaks gibberish for them before Mom meets his eyes. Hers are chipped with many years of wear and tear like an antique piece of blue pottery. He has no idea how she does it. "You're right about that." She smiles blithely. "Now you get out of here," she commands, picking up the chef's knife and pointing at him with it. "Out!"

 _Too late, I already saw the ham_ , he thinks as he retreats to the couch, hopping over the back to flop down beside Sam. There's another episode of _The Twilight Zone on_ , the one where the astronaut named Adam crashes on a foreign planet where he finds another crash-lander, Eve, and the planet turns out to be Earth. He's seen it three times and still thinks it's anticlimactic.He's not really feeling into it now, anyway.

"Dad's not coming, huh?" Sam says, still determinedly watching the TV.

"Nope. Not like I got my hopes up or anything."

Sam sighs heavily, too old for a kid his age. "Figured. Well, did he... say anything else?" He fishes, trying to hide whatever he's feeling with casualness.

"He said that he loves you and Mom and he'd be home when he could," Dean lies. Sam says okay and doesn't say anything else, because he probably knows it, too.

****  
  
  


* * *

 

****  
  


Castiel steps up three weathered porch steps each with a distinct squeak, _eek--err--eep_ , across an equally weathered a porch, the dark grain of wood peeking through charming age cracks that many layers of paint have failed to keep concealed. Potted ivy hangs from the rafters like streamers, the banisters bow with ceramic pots of flowers, equal parts dead and thriving. The mat under the happy yellow door with an eye level stained glass pane says WELCOME and he knocks on the door, holding Dean's birthday gift behind him and his overnight bag over his shoulder.

When Dean and Sam had said there'd be a party, he didn't know what to expect and he didn't think to ask until it was too late. So he'd dressed nicely but not too nicely, dark jeans, his nicer sneakers and a pale pink cotton button down under a nondescript blazer. Gabe gave it his thumbs-up of approval and called it 'casual chic'.

So when Castiel had pulled up to the house and turned the key to kill his engine, he immediately felt overdressed. Even fifteen minutes late (because Gabriel stressed the importance of being fashionably late), there was no bone rattling music to shake the foundation of the little two-story San Francisco style house, no colored lights spinning dizzy in the windows, and he realized what kind of party it was. A 'not a party' kind of party. He should have guessed. Not to mention he's one of only four cars here in the pebble driveway. It's funny to see Dean's omnipresent vehicle parked next to a modest SUV, most likely his Mother's. There's a rusted over two-door speedster in the drive as well, and he wonders if it belongs to his uncle Bobby, owner of the neighborhood auto dump.

Cas hears someone yell "I got it" and there's the sound of feet thudding on the floor before the yellow door opens inward and Dean is right here in the threshold, smiling for him.

"Happy Birthday," Castiel greets.

"Hey man, you made it after all," Dean says all while smiling, which is a strong force to be greeted with. He looks Cas up and down and adds, "whoa, where's the fire Casanova?"

Cas looks down, feeling even more like a sore thumb because Dean is barefoot, wearing gray, low-hung sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt with holes worn in the collar. And he may as well add that Dean looks very good this way. "I guess I overdressed," he mumbles.

"Nah, don't sweat it," Dean says, knocking his knuckles against Cas' shoulder. "You look good."

Castiel tries to choke out a thank you when Sam pokes his head up behind his big brother's shoulder. "Hey Cas, wow you look, uh, fancy," he guffaws. "What've you got behind your back, huh? A present for Dean?"

"Uh, yes," Cas relinquishes his gift, wrapped up in the photograph pages from a National Geographic because he didn't have any wrapping paper.

"Ooh give it here," Dean says, taking it from him and pulling him inside the house by his coat sleeve. "Nice wrap job," he adds, noticing the cutout of a field of wildebeest.

"It's really nothing much," Cas says, watching Dean turn it over and shake the thin rectangle when he notices a flash of pink on Dean's fingertips. Nail polish? He almost asks when Sam distracts him by telling him to hang up his coat and take off his shoes if he wants to because they keep the heat up. So he does and he feels much better to be a little less overdressed now and relieved this isn't a 'big party' type of party.

Cas leaves his overnight bag by the stairs and they lead him into a living room, giving a quick tour of the comfortably compact house along the way. Bathroom's down that hall and upstairs, his mother and Uncle Bobby are in the kitchen back there but they can't go in because Dean isn't allowed until it's time to eat. He says his mother is cooking dinner --ham-- and that's why the whole house smells so good, warm and heady with food like Thanksgiving day. Out there's the backyard, that's the haunted closet Dean won't don't dare open without brandishing a knife, that's where Sam broke his toe last year like an idiot.

"I really enjoy your house," Cas decides, sandwiched in conversation between the boys on the worn-soft couch in the living room.

"I find that hard to swallow, what with the freakin' _castle_ you live in," Dean mutters, still fondling the wrapping of his present with chipping pink nails that Cas desperately wants to ask about. "But uh, thanks. It's not bad. We got cable."

Castiel nods, watching his friend’s fingertips. He doesn't watch much tv outside of space exploration shows and animal documentaries. “Did you paint your nails?” He blurts.

Dean makes fists so as to hide his nails. “No,” he grunts. “That was Sam. You should never mess with a man while he’s asleep. But hiding the nail polish remover was something I would’ve done. Touche.”

“Thanks. I don’t know, Cas, I think it suits him,” Sam’s smile looks like a big one he’s trying to keep under control.

Castiel touches Dean’s hand, coaxing it to open up, warm and steady in his hold. “I think that particular shade is a little too bright for Dean’s complexion,” he speculates, running his thumb over the polish.

“Oh c’mon,” Dean grumbles lightly, his anger drained.

"Yeah, I'll tone it down next time." Sam says. "Hey are you gonna open that already or shove it up your butt later?"

“Can it Sammy, I'm formulating my educated guesses," Dean snips, releasing Cas’ hand to test the edges of his present. "Is it... A book?"

Cas shakes his head. "No."

"A... Dry erase board?"

"No. Why would I get you a dry erase board, Dean?"

"It was just a guess, okay? Okay, my final guess. Is it a... Y'know what I'm just gonna open it." Dean tears through his naturesque collage to the cardboard backside of the frame. He turns it over, tears off the last piece of husk and Sam sits up to get a better look.

"Oh, wow," Dean breathes, running his thumb down the flat, contemporary black frame holding Cas' drawing of the Impala.

"Do... you like it?" Cas asks, suddenly feeling nervous and terrible. He gives Dean doodles all the time, why would he want another? He should have bought him something he'd actually be able to use. One of those key chains with flashlights on them.

"Like it?" Dean scoffs, still staring at it, "I love it, Cas, thanks." He angles himself around to envelope Cas in a crooked one-armed hug. He smells better than the house, maybe like warm skin and definitely like fabric softener. Cas tells him he's welcome and pats his back and is released too quickly, so he has to hold onto that blip of a moment and file it away for safe keeping, in a folder with all their other hugs.

"Awh," Sam coos.

What he would assume is Mrs. Winchester's voice calls out from the kitchen before Dean can reach across him and get at his little brother, "Dean, is your friend here?"

Dean answers her with a yell a little close to his ear, "yeah, he's here."

"Well aren't you going to come in here and introduce us?" She calls back.

"You mean I'm _allowed_ in the kitchen now?"

"Get your smart ass in here, boy!" That must be Uncle Bobby.

Dean mutters something and the couch sighs when they all stand up at the same time. They pass through a tiny hall hung with green string wallpaper and family photos (and his little Sam) that opens to the newly off-limits kitchen, where a woman wearing a gingham apron with her blonde hair pulled back  and a scrubby faced man with a trucker cap watch them file in.

“Mom, Bobby: Cas. Cas: Mom, Bobby,” Dean introduces, motioning back and forth with his hands.

Mrs. Winchester --Mary, he knows-- steps to Castiel with a smile shaped just like Sam’s, intimidating in its similarity and beauty. She practically radiates with something he'd liken to a motherly glow. “It’s good to finally meet you,” she says in a soft, earnest way. “The boys talk about you all the time.”

“Mom,” Dean whines.

Bobby hails his attention next by picking up his limp hand and shaking it. “You got yourself some real talent, boy,” he says, pinning him with spry eyes like dark wash denim. "Dean can't quit flapping' his lips over you."

" _Bobby_ ," Dean stares at his Uncle with enough aggravation to spark a fire.

Cas thanks him nervously and Bobby takes the framed Impala Sam practically shoves in his face and blinks, holding it away as if his far-sight is fading. "Damn, boy," he whistles.

"Oh my, that's fantastic, Castiel. It looks perfect," Mrs. Winchester compliments.

Dean watches him  stew in the praise, stuttering out more "thank you"s and Sam rescues by asking if they could possibly _please_ eat now, and after his mother says yes they sure can, they're sitting at the table helping plates. Nobody sits next to the birthday boy, like they know Castiel can't wait to. There's the ham already cut in rich pink slices, biscuits with butter and among other things, something already on Dean's plate that looks like strange green beans. Cas only ever sees so much food on a holiday, much less on one of his family's birthdays. For Novak birthdays, they usually went go somewhere with a name he can't pronounce that requires a reservation and fancier attire than what he has on now. This little table barely capable of holding all this food is much better than all of that.

The family does most of the talking while Castiel listens, though they make sure to keep him in the loop with questions about him, his family, school-- their cordiality is so seamless he almost feels like part of the family. He's more interested in the retelling of Dean's childhood stories. Dean really was a princess for Halloween when he was seven with a bowl cut, and he would've been a princess twice had his Dad not had a problem with it.

"What is that?" Castiel asks Dean when they aren't included in the conversation, regarding the green bean mystery dish.

"The only vegetable I'll eat," he says, having another bite. "Try it, it's awesome," he offers Cas his fork to eat from, and Cas accepts.

It tastes mostly like cream of onion soup. "It's good," Cas decides, licking the roof of his mouth. He makes to get a helping from the casserole dish itself and sees Bobby, Mrs. Winchester and Sam staring at him and Dean, and he realizes how it must come across to be sharing food off one another's forks. They drop their stares in the same second he notices them, and his hand unfreezes in it's perch above the casserole dish. He side-eyes Dean, but he's chasing a piece of ham around his plate to gather the last of his potatoes and doesn't appear to have noticed his family's curiosity.

Afterwards it's time for presents and since Dean already opened Cas', there are only three his mom sets down on the table. As Cas might predict, Dean pulls the biggest box toward himself first. It’s from his mom and tears the “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!” wrapping paper off in one go. Dean's eyes pop wide at the sleek cardboard box containing a green stand up mixer, one of the expensive ones Castiel isn’t sure how to use but is sure Dean knows his way around.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispers, running his reverent hands over his box and turning it around and around.

"I take it you like it," Mrs. Winchester says, regarding him with raised eyebrows.

"Seriously? This is the shi-- I mean, this is the best, Mom, thank you."

"Mine next," Sam pushes a very pink and very glittery bag gift bag into his big brother's space.

Dean quirks an eyebrow when he gets a good look at the conspicuous bag before him. Dean sticks his hand inside the bag to bring out three small bottles of nail polish: electric blue, pastel purple and a glitter top coat. “Wow, thanks,” he mutters, and Bobby’s craggy laugh echos Sam’s boyish one.

“Been dolling yourself up?” Bobby teases.

“I’m borrowing this one,” Mrs. Winchester adds, plucking the electric blue from the table. "It'll match me better."

“Here,” Sam exhales another laugh at his brother's sour face and slides an ominous looking hard-cover book over. It reads _Supernatural Lore_ in black, heavy-handed script.

“How’d you know I-” Dean starts and Bobby cuts across him.

“Son, out of all the books I got in my library, you’re always stickin’ yer nose in the creep-tacular ones. That one especially.”

“So I asked Bobby if I could have it for you,” Sam states, almost smug.

Dean looks humbled. He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Well, thanks. Bitch."

"Jerk."

After Dean opens his final gift, a card from Bobby with a bonus check for work taped inside, it's time for cake. Sam handles the plates and Mrs. Winchester brings the covered, silver cake stand in with swaying hips and steady hands. The silver warps the reflections of faces around the table like a fun-house mirror. The lid is removed to reveal a--

"Pie?" Uncle Bobby scrunches his face up.

“Heck yeah, it’s my birthday old man,” Dean fish puckers his lips.

It indeed is a pie, with a number “18” candle stuck in the center. It looks and smells perfect, braided with golden crust like something he’d seen on the cover of a chef’s magazine. “Of course,” Castiel finds himself laughing after a puzzled second.

Mary dims the lights and Sam brings forth a lighter, flicking the candle to flame, and they all sing happy birthday. As he sings in an off-key tone, Castiel watches Dean. His forest eyes crinkle and reflect the tiny flame, he bites the inside of his bottom lip but can’t quell the timid smile on his mouth. When it’s time to make a wish, he glances at Castiel (whose heart quivers because the candle light effect on Dean’s face is a thing of fairy tale) before quickly blowing out the candle with a heavy puff. He plucks the candle out and licks the filling off.

Mrs. Winchester cuts out pieces with a silver cake knife and Dean eagerly takes the first plate, digging in with a fork. “Oh God yes,” he groans, and everyone laughs.

“And you call me a dork,” Sam mutters, picking apart his pie to get just the tart apple-blueberry filling.

Dean swallows. “That’s because you are. And you don’t even like pie.”

“I like pie I just like cake better.”

“You sicken me, y’know--”

Dean’s banter shrivels up when the phone rings shrill from its cradle on the wall. As a matter of fact, everyone seems to sober and it makes Castiel halt his fork’s commute towards his open mouth.

“I’ll get it,” their mother says quietly, swiftly pushing away from the table to stretch the phone into the hallway and Castiel hears her canned voice answer: “Hello?”

Dean is most tense of the four of them; his sharp eyes trained on the silver dish, his jaw tight. His hand pinches tight around his forgotten forkful of pie. From what Dean has disclosed to him, Castiel thinks he may know who would be on the phone to have them all turned to stone: Mr. Winchester.

But it’s not him on the phone. “Hi Dad,” Mrs. Winchester seems to exhale, visibly relaxing everyone at the table. “Yeah. Oh, I bet so. Mhm. Well, I’ll be sure to tell him. I love you too, bye.” She hangs the phone back and returns to the table. “Grandpa Campbell wishes you a happy birthday. He sent you a card in the mail.”

Dean nods stiffly. “Cool.”

They pick the conversation back up but it doesn't feel right for a while, like picking up the pieces of a broken ceramic and trying to glue it back together.

It's late when all the talk and dinner is over. Bobby leaves after watching Dean set up his standing mixer and Mary gives Dean the stink eye when he tries to help with the dishes. The brothers seem to have a natural rhythm of things so Castiel tails them up the stairs, grabbing his bag when Dean reminds him to. They stop inside the little pink porcelain bathroom all together to brush their teeth and they leave Cas to change into his sleep attire. He gratefully sheds his unnecessary "casual chic" outfit in favor of burgundy drawstring sweats and his favorite t-shirt. Sam says goodnight and stows away in his own room while Cas steps into what he assumes is Dean's bedroom when he stops, staring at the tacky floral wallpaper dressing the room. He studies its pattern up close, appreciating the details.

“It gives me the creeps too,” Dean says from his crisscross-applesauce seat on his bed. “Haven’t had the time to get rid of it.”

“I like it,” Castiel declares, coming to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. "It has character."

"You would like it wouldn't you?" Dean cracks open his new book and turns its sepia-toned pages. "Flower Boy."

Castiel looks about the room once more, noticing the neatly made bed and organized shelves where he sees the "blind" portrait he made of Dean earlier in the week. Though he doesn't see an air mattress or floor-bed of any kind. "Where do I sleep?" He asks.

Dean spaces out, like he hadn't really thought about sleeping arrangements. "Oh. I figured we'd just, uh, we'd just share."

Those butterflies will not leave Castiel be. "You don't mind?"

"Um, nah I don't mind at all. You?"

"No."

"Okay then."

With that settled, Castiel peers over his shoulder, eating up the eerie antique illustrations of supernatural monsters. There are pages on things like shtrigas, changelings, werewolves, even glowing angels and shadow-eyed demons. “I didn't know you were interested in these things,” he says.

"Yeah no, I uh," Dean clears his throat and shifts on the mattress to turn in closer. His shoulder is warm and strong against Cas'. "It's just cool. All the, uh, spooky stories."

"Yes, it is," Castiel agrees, more focused on the art than the lore. "Dean?" he asks, suddenly remembers the bone-chilling phone call that halted dinner.

"Yeah?"

"Earlier, when the phone rang, were you worried your father was going to be on the other line?" He asks softly.

Dean flips to a page of dragons and doesn't say anything at first. Then he grunts, "Yeah. He uh, he called earlier and I talked to him."

"How did that go?"

"Oh, it went dandy," he smiles, sugarcoating his sarcasm. "Just dandy. He said he couldn't make it and it's a good thing he didn't. I didn't want him here anyways."

Castiel's insides twinge, filling with the bitterness in Dean's words. "Right. I'm sorry, Dean."

"No biggie. So Cas," Dean begins in a new chipper voice, closing the book and shifting to sit cross legged in front of him. "What's your history?"

"My... history?"

Dean nods and sticks his bottom lip out slightly, spurring him on.

"Well, I was originally born in Boston but adopted in--"

Dean pinches his face muscles and waves a hand to push his speech aside. "Kill the biography. I mean _romantic_ history."

Castiel "Oh. Well it's not extensive, I can assure you that."

"No kidding," Dean's eyes are teasing him and it stirs the butterflies around the edges of his stomach. "Aw c'mon. It's officially, full-on, doing each other's hair, pillow fighting, crush-gushing 'sleepover Saturday'."

"It's Friday."

"You know what I mean. Just tell me anything. Like what poor sap did you take to the eighth grade dance? What fantasies did you have about your hot teacher? Or when was your first kiss?"

Green eyes are nibbling at Cas' edges and he can't look at them so he stares at the holes in the collar of his friend's shirt. "My uh, first kiss wasn't pleasant. In second grade there was a girl named April who fancied. So one day on the play field she pushed me into a tree and kissed me without my consent. She'd applied far too much apple flavored lip-gloss and I believe I cried. We dated for two weeks afterward," he adds, looking at Dean now with a tiny grin.

It takes Dean a moment before he works himself into a healthy, full-body laughter, throwing back his head. Castiel's chest swells with the pride of making him bust up. "Oh, ow, my liver," Dean winces though his shaking and he wipes the little tears from the corners of his eyes. "It's been awhile since I laughed that hard. What other stories you got?"

Castiel briefly recounts his life's experience in his head. "That's it."

Dean's expression morphs into downright skepticism. "No way. You mean to tell me that _that_ was your only kiss? Little April painting your face with her lip smackers? No swapping spit in a janitor's closet? No sneaking out of your window at two in the morning for a little diddle action? No way," he repeats.

"I assured you it wasn't extensive," Cas shrugs, trying to play off the fact that his romanticism is pretty dead for an eighteen year old, now that he's dragged the dusty thing out from under the bed. It's a punch in the gut to realize all those things Dean is listing ( _the_ Dean, the genius who’s also cheerleader, the car mechanic with _Victoria’s Secret_ under his denim), there's a good chance he's speaking from years of experience.

“When was yours?” He inquires.

Dean holds his feet, crossed in his lap and rocks backwards slightly, checking the ceiling like it’s been written there. “My first real kiss was with a girl named Gillian, in the seventh grade. She had this hair that was like, it was the _blondest_ hair. The kiss was alright.”

“Nothing compared to mine.”

“Nope, can’t compare with that.”

The following silence pricks at Castiel's eardrums as he stares at the meadow sweet in the wallpaper. Dean shifts the balance of the mattress when he stands from the bed to shut his bedroom door for the night and turn off all lights minus a nightlight. Coupled with the light from the windows, it bathes the flowery room in a dim glow, just enough to see shapes but not enough to see perfect colors. When Dean returns to the bed, he bounces Cas and pops the silence with a pink O of his mouth when he says, "So. I think you just need a little practice. And you're in luck, bucko, because I'm an expert," he tacks on with an encouraging push to Cas' shoulder.

"What kind of... practice?" Castiel asks, dubiously watching the freckled, square palm smooth down his bare arm then looks back up to a freckled face.

"I think we oughta just go with the basics, right?" Dean winks, switching on the distinct charm he reserves for joking and flirting his way out of tight spots. "Since you've only ever had your first kiss, we'll start there."

Castiel narrows his eyes.  "And how are we going to do that?"

"Kiss me."

It takes a second for Cas' brain to decode those two words and when it does, everything in him floats up and out through his crown, leaving him full of what he’d only describe as sugary air. It’s a wonder he stays down. He manages to get out a comprehending, “Oh.”

Deans grin cuts into his cheeks. “Whoa, don’t look so spooked. Y'look like I asked you to hack my arm off or something.”

“You want me to kiss you?” Castiel asks, still floating.

“Yeah-- yeah,” Dean falters. “I mean unless you’d prefer kissing Sam. I don’t mind but I don’t think Sam would volunteer his lips willingly. He’s choosy like that.”

“No I’ll, I’ll kiss you,” Castiel heartens, surprisingly bold for a cotton candy being.

It looks like it’s Dean’s turn to dissipate, worrying Cas that he hadn't been absolutely serious. “You know it’s, it’s only if you actually want to,” he clarifies, holding a cautious hand out and softly touching all the features of Cas' face with his eyes. “You want to?”

Cas tries to keep it cool when he says, “Yeah.”

"Alright then." Dean rocks side to side to situate himself closer, so that their knees touch and Castiel can count the creases in his lower lip. "Just so I'm clear, which way you wanna tilt? Left or right?"

"Um," Castiel slides his clammy hands over the faded sheets and blurts, "left."

"Right. I'll close my eyes and you can come in nice 'n' easy, no pressure. It's just like riding a bike."

Castiel almost laughs. "I don't know how to do that, either."

Dean manages to give him a displeased look while squinting out of one eye. "Then use your imagination."

Castiel takes a stabilizing breath and wets his chapped lips. Then he blots them on the back of his hand, deciding chapped is better than wet. The flowers on the wall are watching him, making the nerves under his skin itch and writhe under their allusion. Dean hums a little tune to himself, the picture of content. For the first time, Castiel would like to punch him.

"Breaker, breaker, come in Castiel," he teases. "Are you th--"

Cas ends Dean's next sentence with his mouth. He comes on a little heavily, gracelessly mashing their lips and pushing Dean backwards enough to make him hold on to Cas' forearms. Just one kiss must be a little thing for Dean, but it makes Cas' entire world tremble, the warning waves just before an earthquake.

They pull apart after that light year of a second, Cas vaguely thinking about how their first kiss will always and forever be a poorly executed mess. But that evaporates when he sees Dean's face again, catching the ghost of the way his mouth tasted with each breath.

Dean's eyelids hang heavy, the darkened green still trained on Castiel's mouth. His cheeks stained the color of the inside of his parted lips. He swallows thickly and says, "Well."

"Well," Castiel parrots.

Dean finally lifts his eyes. "That was, _wasn't_ so bad for a first try, I guess. A little less 'oomph' next time."

 _Next time_? Castiel can't control his grin when his stomach turns sweet. "I don't suppose you'd like me to try again?"

"Well you know what they say: practice makes perf--"

He doesn't give Dean a chance to finish his sentence before kissing him again. This time he's sure to be soft, purposeful. They slot together nicely, in a way that clicks his gears into motion and defibrillates his heart. Two strong hands grab Castiel's hands and they link their fingers together between them and Castiel thinks he's never been happier.

They practice like that for a while, mapping the shape of each other's lips and getting familiar with the dizziness until it's part of his bloodstream. Dean teaches him what to do and how to move, but allows Cas to take charge of the learning experience. They stop only when Castiel's lips feel swollen and Dean's actually _are_ swollen. Even though it's not cold they sink their heads under the bedspread just to put them together again in the blue dark.

"Happy birthday to me," Dean mumbles.

"Happy Birthday," Castiel says, leaning in to be one with Dean's forehead before closing his eyes and drifting off into clouds of sugar and butterflies.

****  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

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